


where have all the young men gone? (gone to graveyards, every one.)

by BearlyWriting



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Bed-Wetting, Blood and Injury, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt Jason Todd, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jason Todd is Robin, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Panic Attacks, Permanent Injury, Physical Therapy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Alfred Pennyworth, Protective Bruce Wayne, Protective Dick Grayson, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vomiting, absolutely not in a sexual way, only very briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22637476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: "Batman tries to kick the batcycle up another notch, but already it’s straining at top speed, whining and shuddering between his thighs. It’s not fast enough. Not half as quick as the racing of his heart - the endless circle of his thoughts chasing each other around the static haze in his head. How long has it been? How long since Jason has been inhishands? The Joker’s?"Batman makes it in time to save Robin from the bomb. He doesn't make it in time to save Jason from the Joker.Or Batman is too late in every universe, but Bruce Wayne doesn't have to be.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Jason Todd, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Joker/Jason Todd
Comments: 240
Kudos: 705





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags! This fic does NOT contain any on screen/graphic rape, but it does focus on the immediate and long-term aftermath of the rape of a minor. If that is going to bother you in anyway, I would maybe skip this fic. If I've missed any tags, please let me know and I'm happy to add them!

There’s sand in his mouth, gritty against his skin beneath the cowl. It whips against the lenses of his mask, kicked up by his speeding tyres. It extends endlessly around him. In front of him. Stretching between him and his son. Robin. _Jason_. 

Batman tries to kick the batcycle up another notch, but already it’s straining at top speed, whining and shuddering between his thighs. It’s not fast enough. Not half as quick as the racing of his heart - the endless circle of his thoughts chasing each other around the static haze in his head. How long has it been? How long since Jason has been in _his_ hands? The Joker’s?

Too long. The Joker is violent and unpredictable. He could have done anything to Jason. Hurt him. Killed him.

No.

Batman can’t let that happen. He won’t. He won’t be too late.

The desert disappears beneath him. In the distance, a small brown smudge winks into existence, getting rapidly larger. Batman’s heart clenches. That’s where the Joker has Robin. That’s where he’ll find his son.

Batman’s brain is strangely blank as he lets the batcycle slide out from underneath him. There are no real thoughts in his head, just panic and a single-minded determination. The air is hot and close against his skin. The desert crunches beneath his boots. Up ahead, a little metal door is all that separates him from his son. 

Batman launches himself towards it and the door gives way like paper beneath his solid kick, not even locked. There’s a half-second where Batman adjusts to the sudden change in scene: a frozen moment in time where Batman’s eyes adapt to the sudden darkness, the concrete where there once was sand, the closeness of the walls. Then his gaze finds Jason and suddenly his son is the only thing in the world that he can see.

There’s blood. A lot of it. So much of it that for an awful, terrible, inconceivable moment, Bruce thinks Jason might be dead. It’s soaked into the concrete floor, leaking from his child’s split lip and the awful gash across his forehead, staining Jason’s shredded Robin costume.

Bruce’s stomach lurches up his throat and lodges there, thick and unwieldy. Something that might be a scream tries to follow it up, tries to force its way out of him, but there’s no room in his swollen throat for it. 

Jason’s eyelids flutter and he’s not dead, _not dead_ , and that should matter, that _does_ matter. But the Joker is crouching over his son, one gloved hand tangled in Jason’s curls, the other clutching at his hip, staring up at Batman with what might be genuine shock. And Jason’s Robin uniform is torn and ruined and peeled away from him, peeled off in places. And Jason’s legs are bare and so is the curve of his hip and more and…

“Batsy!” The Joker gasps, rocking back on his heels. Batman can see the gape of his fly, the pale stretch of Jason’s flesh. There’s a buzzing in Bruce’s ears, so loud it almost drowns the Joker out. “Don’t you know it’s rude to arrive so early to a party? Now I know where boy blunder got his man-“

Batman’s fist cuts the words off, sends them skittering back down his throat with a brutal punch. The Joker falls back against the concrete with a strange strangled sound that might be a laugh and Batman follows him down. Delivers another sledgehammer punch that has the Joker gasping. It’s not enough. A blank red haze fills Bruce’s head. Not for what the Joker’s done.

“Ooh, B,” the Joker manages, breathless, “you know I like it rough.” Blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth when he smiles, yellow teeth stained red. “I don’t think your little birdy liked it quite as much, though.”

Batman roars. It feels as though all of the blood has drained out of his head. His skin prickles. His heart pounds in his throat, a sick, throbbing beat. What the Joker’s implying...what the Joker _has done_ …

And Batman should go to Robin, should be checking on his son, because Robin is lying still and silent on the concrete behind him, covered in blood and bruises, _broken_ and hurting. But Batman can’t get past the fact that the man who did _that_ to him is in his hands. Is smiling up at him with blood stained teeth. Is reaching for the wrist of the arm holding him against the ground with the hand that touched his son.

Batman knocks the arm aside and shatters it in two deft movements. The Joker screams once, high and clear before the sound tapers into a breathless laugh.

“Did I hit a nerve Batsy? Did you want to be the one to pop his cherr- ugghhhh….” he cuts off with a moan as Batman breaks his other arm. Bile licks up Bruce’s throat. Thick and hot and burning.

“Is that - _hah_ \- ha, ha, ha - is that why you put him in that sinful little costu-“

Another brutal blow to Joker’s chest. Batman feels ribs give way beneath his knuckles. Sees blood bubble over the villain’s lips. The Joker sucks in a rattling breath, chest heaving beneath Batman’s hand. Batman uses that same hand to leverage himself to standing, feels the dip of the Joker’s chest, hears the ragged inhale. The Joker blinks up at him, his mouth moves, as if he’s going to speak again and Batman cuts him off with two quick blows - one to each leg. Bone crunches beneath the sole of his boot.

Somewhere behind them, someone makes a soft, frightened sound. The noise cuts through Bruce’s head like a knife, sharp and clear. It’s Robin. It’s Jason. He’s here and he’s hurt and he needs his father - needs Bruce.

Batman moves without thinking. Doesn’t need to think, just turns towards his son, the world spinning around him until his gaze finds Robin again. His kid is sprawled on the filthy concrete, his arms wrenched behind him, clasped together with cruel metal cuffs. His face is turned towards the door Batman had burst through, one cheek pressed into the ground, his domino mask torn and soaked with blood. There’s blood on his legs too, splashed across the bare skin. One of them is stretched out at an awful, unnatural angle, as if it’s been wrenched out of the hip socket.

Bruce chokes on a sudden surge of bile. Stumbles. Swallows convulsively against the acid in his throat. That’s his son. That’s his _son_.

When Batman steps closer, Robin flinches. It’s barely there, just a twitch of skin, but Batman sees it. It breaks his heart. Shatters it right in his chest. Batman isn’t sure if the kid can even move more than that one little twitch. He’s been beaten so badly, mangled almost beyond recognition.

Nothing could stop Batman from reaching Robin’s side then: not the Joker, not any of Batman’s extensive rogue gallery. An alternative version of himself could burst through from a parallel universe and tell him the world would be destroyed if he made it to Jason and Batman would fight tooth and nail to get there anyway.

He falls to his knees amongst the blood. Hesitates. He’s not sure if he can touch Robin - _Jason_ \- without causing him pain. He’s not sure if he should. Jason’s face is swollen, already streaked with dark, angry bruises. There are more bruises on the pale skin of his neck, black stripes that might be finger-marks, purple circles punched into his flesh that might be worse. Jason’s chest is moving jaggedly with his shallow, hitching breaths. If it weren’t for that, and the tremble of Jason’s dark lashes against his cheeks, he could be mistaken for dead.

No. He’s alive. He’s alive and Batman is going to keep him that way.

First, the cuffs. Harsh metal circled around his son’s thin wrists. When Batman reaches for them, he’s surprised to find his hands are trembling. He clenches his fingers into fists, has to close his eyes and take a deep breath and will that awful fear, that weakness, away.

Jason doesn’t flinch when Batman finally touches him. It’s not clear whether he’s actually conscious. One of his hands is a mangled, bloody mess, the fingers twisted and broken in a way that has Batman’s stomach clenching around nothing but acid. When Batman carefully unclasps the cuffs, the fragile skin underneath is rubbed raw, a wet mess of flesh. Batman ghosts his fingers across the wounds as gently as he can. Tries very hard not to imagine Jason struggling futile against his bonds and fails.

“Robin,” Batman murmurs, resting Jason’s arms carefully on the concrete beside him. He can’t stop himself from laying a hand against his son’s swollen cheek. It dwarfs Jason’s face. He’s so _small_ , so young.

“Robin,” he tries again, clumsily petting through his son’s sweaty, blood-matted curls. God knows what’s hidden underneath that riotous mass of hair. Perhaps it’s better not to wake him. Still…

“ _Jason_.”

Jason’s eyes flicker, that lovely, startling blue hazed with pain. For a moment he stares blankly, his face tight with fear.

“No,” he moans, so quietly that Batman, even so close, can barely hear him. “Please, please stop - I c’n’t -“

The words are slurred around a thick tongue. A sliver of crimson blood trickles over his chin. Bruce feels as though the world is collapsing in around him. No, not the world, the universe.

“It’s OK, chum. It’s OK, Jay-lad, I’m here. I’ve got you, sweetheart. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Jason moans again. His eyes roll fearfully before they seem to finally focus on Batman, crouching over him.

“B?” He whispers and Bruce’s heart clenches so hard he tastes blood, copper on his tongue.

“Yeah, baby, yeah it’s me. I’m here.”

“Dad,” Jason sobs and Bruce didn’t know he could hurt any more but he does, he _does_. “Dad, ‘m sorry. ‘M so s’rry.”

“Don’t. Don’t be Jay-lad. It’s OK. I’m getting you out of here.”

He needs to. They need to get out of here, away from the Joker, away from the blood and the heavy stink of fear and sweat and - God - and sex.

Jason doesn’t reply. Carefully, Batman unclips his cape and lays it over his son. He tries not to look at the blood and bruises and...other fluids on the back of _his child’s_ thighs. He fails. Has to squeeze his eyes shut and tighten his throat to keep from vomiting. He sees it still, branded across the backs of his lids. He’ll keep seeing it, he knows, until the day he fucking dies.

There’s a heady sense of relief as soon as the cape has obscured the worst of it, even though he knows it’s still there under the fabric.

Slowly, so slowly, so carefully, and yet somehow not carefully enough, Batman rolls his son onto his back. Jason gasps, choking on an awful noise of pain and Batman winces. Jason’s arms flop uselessly beside him. His head lolls loose on his neck. Batman cradles his skull in one hand, awfully aware of how small it is, how easily it fits into his palm.

Jason chokes again, the pale column of his throat working, blood pooling in his mouth. Batman tilts his head gently to the side to let a little trickle of crimson slide out. He has to shut his eyes again to avoid the bruises - the _hickeys_ \- on Jason’s little throat.

A hand slides against Batman’s uniform. “B?” Jason manages, a pained little rasp. “My - m-my mom - m’m…”

For the first time, Batman senses another presence in the room. It’s probably a shameful condemnation of his skills that he hadn’t seen Sheila before, but Bruce doesn’t care. She isn’t important - not to him, not when Jason is there and he needs him. But Jason had asked after her, and Batman can’t leave a person behind, even if they aren’t so innocent.

Batman leans carefully over his son, presses a trembling kiss to his blood-sticky forehead. “I’ve got her,” he whispers. “I’ve got her, son.”

They don’t have a lot of time. Jason needs a hospital and God knows what tricks the Joker might still have up his sleeve, but he has to free Sheila, Jason will never forgive him otherwise.

Batman spots Sheila the moment he moves his focus from Jason. She’s tied to one of the tall concrete poles that litter the warehouse, her arms wrenched behind her, a cloth forced between her teeth. Her face is red and puffy, streaked with tears, but there are no obvious injuries that Batman can see. It’s almost impossible to dredge up any sympathy for her. Not when he knows what she’s done. Not when she had sold her own son out for greed.

When Batman steps towards her, she flinches, as if she’s afraid that he might hurt her. For a moment, Batman considers it. It would be endlessly satisfying to feel her bones crunch beneath his fist.

He doesn’t. Instead he slides a batarang out and uses it to slice Sheila’s wrists free. She staggers. Stumbles. Reaches up to tear the gag free with a dry gasp. Batman doesn’t care. Already, he’s turning back to his son.

“I’m sorry,” Sheila gasps. Batman feels a hand scrabble at his shoulder. He shakes it free with a snarl. “I didn’t - I didn’t know he would...oh God…”

There’s the sound of retching, an awful wet gagging noise, the splatter of vomit against concrete. Bruce has to tighten his own throat at the sound. 

He crouches by his son again. “She’s free,” he whispers, running fingers through Jason’s tangled hair. Jason only whimpers in response. “I’m going to get you out of here now, I’m going to pick you up.”

He doesn’t wait for a response to that. There’s never going to be a good one. There’s never going to be a way to do this without hurting him, and they’re running out of time. As carefully as he can, Batman gathers Jason into his arms. Jason whimpers, small and in pain and Bruce’s heart _aches_ with every tiny sound, with every painful jostle that Batman can’t help.

“Is he...oh God, is he…”

Fingers dig into the meat of Batman’s arm. Sheila reaches for the boy in his arms and a growl that doesn’t even sound human rips it’s way out of his throat.

“Don’t touch him!” Batman roars and she flinches, shrinking away from him, white as a ghost in the dim light. Against his chest, Jason whines and Batman tucks his son’s face into his neck. It’s wet, whether with blood or tears, Batman can’t tell.

“Don’t…” he chokes. “Just get out of here.”

“Leaving already?” A laugh, shrill and sick. Jason flinches with his whole body and Batman’s arms tighten automatically. “But the party...isn’t over, Batsy. We - hah - we still have my final…my final surprise.”

He shouldn’t turn. He shouldn’t look. He should just get the hell out of here and leave the fucked up clown to whatever fate he has in store. But Batman can’t help himself. He has to know.

The Joker is still lying where Batman left him, limbs spread in a grotesque halo around him. He’s staring at the three of them with an awful intensity, but when he catches Batman’s white-lensed gaze his eyes flicker away. Batman can’t help but follow them to the ticking red numbers burning out of the gloom.

A bomb. The Joker’s set a fucking bomb.

“Get out,” he roars, already launching himself towards the door, holding Jason tight against his chest. Behind him, he can hear Sheila scrambling after him. Can hear her panting, terrified breaths. Then Batman is bursting out onto the sand, sprinting, not slowing, not bothering to look for where he’s going, just knowing he has to get away.

Another laugh follows them out. Batman almost doesn’t hear it over his own desperate breaths, the crunch of sand beneath two pairs of feet. Then…

⁂  


There’s a ringing in Batman’s ears. A sharp pain throbbing in his head. It’s dark...or...no…Batman’s eyes are just closed. He blinks, feels the rasp of his eyelashes against the lenses of his cowl.

Above him is an endless sky, starting to dim as the sun sinks below the horizon. Where is he? The ground beneath him feels gritty, somehow soft yet firm at the same time. The air around him feels dry and too hot and…

Everything slams back into place at once. He’s in Ethiopia and he’s not alone: the Joker, Shelia, Robin - Jason, it’s Jason. He’s hurt. The Joker - the Joker hurt his son.

Batman pushes himself up so quickly that his head spins. Where’s Jason? Where is his son?

There’s a flash of red, the Robin costume, two bodies - two people - lying just a little way away from him. Batman scrambles upwards, forwards. Doesn’t make it off his knees. Slides to a stop at his son’s side. Jason is lying limp, limbs a strange tangle around him, the cape wrapped around his ankles. His face is slack and still.

Bruce’s heart thuds to a stop in his chest, an aching void behind his ribs. He rips his gauntlets from his hands and tosses them across the sand. Then he presses his trembling fingers to the skin beneath his son’s jaw.

There’s a pulse, slow and thready. Beside him, Sheila groans. Batman stares hard at Jason’s stomach. Turns his head and lays his ear against his son’s mouth, watching his chest.

He’s not breathing. Jason isn’t breathing.

Fuck. _Fuck_. The whole world drops out from underneath Bruce. For a second he can’t breathe either. Then -

“Superman!” Batman screams, unconsciously, instinctively, the sound tearing out of him like it’s coming from someone else. It rips his throat to shreds. He tastes copper in his mouth. “Superman! Clark, please! Help me!”

There’s no guarantee that Clark will hear him. Even less of a guarantee that he’ll come. There could be any number of emergencies: a villain that needs stopping, a natural disaster that needs evacuating, a cat stuck up a goddamn tree, perhaps. Jason could die here, out on the sand. Jason might -

There’s a sudden gust of wind, whirling sand up in its wake, turning the grains into tiny shards of shrapnel. Then a heavy thud and a strong, familiar voice.

“Batman?”

Batman almost melts in relief. He came. Superman is here and he can take care of this. He can save Jason.

Quick footsteps, then Superman is kneeling at Batman’s side, his face paler than Batman has ever seen it. “Oh Rao, what happened? Robin? Batman, what happened?”

Batman shakes his head. His desperation is lodged so firmly in his throat that it makes it difficult to get the words out. “He’s not breathing. Take him...take him please. He needs a hospital. He needs…”

Superman lifts Jason into his arms before Batman can finish his rambling plea. For a second, Batman’s cape clings to Jason, tangled around one leg, before sliding to the ground with a soft puff of sand. It leaves Jason horribly exposed, pale and vulnerable in the dimming light. Superman’s face twists with something that might be horror. Batman scrambles for the cape, wanting to tuck it back over his son, but Superman is already gone, disappearing into the distance in a streak of red and blue.

⁂  


“What happened, Bruce?”

The voice is still familiar, although it’s softened into Clark Kent, losing the edge that Superman affects when he’s the man of steel. Bruce doesn’t look up from his hands, clenched between his thighs to stop them trembling. There’s a lump in his throat that feels as big as the world. When he tries to swallow around it, it hurts, jagged and heavy as a stone.

“He -“ Bruce has to swallow again, dryly. His throat clicks. He feels, rather than sees, Clark sit beside him. The warmth of his thigh presses against Bruce’s leg. “He found his mother - his birth mother - in Ethiopia. He was angry at me...for benching him…”

“I’m sure you had good reason to,” Clark says, softly, when Bruce pauses a little too long. 

Bruce twitches one shoulder in dismissal. Has to clench his hands harder against the hot swell of self-hatred surging through his chest. If he hadn’t benched Robin, if he had _trusted_ him, maybe this would never have happened.

“He ran away to find her. I was in Lebanon, after the Joker. We met up there. We went to Ethiopia together. I fucking - _I_ fucking took him here.”

A hand drops onto Bruce’s shoulder, warm and reassuring. Bruce doesn’t have the energy to shrug it off.

“We found his mother - Sheila. She was working with an aid charity. Embezzling them out of money. Jason - he only wanted to get to know her, he just wanted - wanted to spend time with his _mother_.”

A shuddering breath.

“She sold him out. The Joker was blackmailing her, so she - she sold Jason out to him. Her own fucking son. By the time I found them, that _freak_ had had him for over an hour. I don’t - God - I don’t even know what he did to him. Tortured him and -“

Bruce swallows again around the words. He doesn’t want to think about what that monster had done to his son. He doesn’t want to say the words.

“He was going to kill him.” And it hurts to say it. Hurts to admit how close Bruce had gotten to losing him. If he had been just a little bit later…

Not that Jason is safe now. It will be another few hours, most likely, before Bruce hears anything from the doctors. Jason had been in bad shape when Superman had brought him to the hospital. There’s no guarantee that he’ll survive.

The thought feels like a void in his head, as if it’s sucking away everything inside him, consuming him, turning the future into a sucking black hole. He feels so utterly out of control. Feels as though he’s been turned inside out and scraped raw and put back together by someone who didn’t have a clue what they were doing.

“And the Joker?” Clark asks, hesitantly. “What happened to him? Where is he?”

Bruce shrugs. “Dead.”

His voice sounds flat and awful even to his own ears. Bruce doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what Clark thinks of him.

“Dead?” Clark repeats. Then, dropping his voice to barely a whisper: “Bruce you didn’t - did you kill him?”

“I should have!” Bruce snaps, not bothering to keep his own voice low. He should have known that’s what Clark would care about. In another life, maybe that’s what Bruce would have cared about too, but not in this one. Not now. “I should have broken every bone in his fucking body.”

Another deep breath. Bruce can’t stop the shaking now, no matter how tightly he squeezes his hands together.

“No,” he continues, low and bitter, “the Joker’s own bomb got him. The one he would have killed Jason with.”

He can’t help looking at Clark then. There’s a strange expression on his friend’s face that Bruce can’t read.

“You don’t believe me? You can blame me if you want, Clark. I’m the one who made sure he couldn’t get out. I broke his arms and legs. Some ribs too. There’s no way he got out of that warehouse. And you can blame me for that if you want, Clark. I don’t care.”

Clark’s face twists. “Bruce…”

Bruce surges out of the chair before Clark can finish whatever he was about to say, start whatever lecture was on his tongue. There’s a wild, restless energy blazing in Bruce’s chest. He wants to hit something. Wants to _destroy_ something.

“I don’t care, Clark!” He yells, too loud, too angry. Clark just sits there, still and silent in the face of his rage. “I don’t fucking care! He _raped_ him.”

And the word breaks over a sob. That awful, hateful word, twisting like a knife in Bruce’s throat, dragging that awful ragged sob up after it. It hurts more than almost anything Bruce has had to endure just to think it, to think it and know that it applies to his _son_.

“He’s fifteen! He’s, God, he’s just a fucking kid and that sick son of a bitch…”

Another sob. Bruce presses a shaking hand over his eyes. He feels Clark stand. Feels a hand touch his arm, surprisingly light.

“Bruce -“

Bruce hits him. Puts all of his fear and anger and hatred into one brutal punch. Clark rolls with it, turning his head to absorb the impact, letting Bruce knock him aside. If he hadn’t, Bruce would have broken his hand.

“Bruce,” Clark says again, louder, firmer. “I don’t blame you, OK? I don’t. I’m not - I’m not saying that I’m happy about it. I’m not happy about anything that has happened here. But I don’t blame you. I understand.”

It helps, a little. But Bruce is too hurt and bitter to accept it.

“No you don’t,” he says, wet and ugly. “How could you possibly understand? He’s just a kid. He’s just a fucking kid.”

Clark doesn’t reply to that. Bruce isn’t sure if there’s anything to say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So quick disclaimer for the rest of this fic: I know absolutely nothing about anything medical, hospitals, the police, the media, or Ethiopia. Or, in fact, anything. This head empty guys.
> 
> Feel free to point out any super glaring mistakes if you think it’ll help me in the future :) but fair warning, this fic is already completely written and I’m far too lazy to go back and edit it so...warning for massive inaccuracies ahead!

“Pass me the pepperoni please.”

Dick slides the pizza box over to Garfield with a nudge of his foot. There are enough to feed a small army, and Dick’s sure there’s a pepperoni box somewhere by Beast Boy’s knee, but it’s easier just to pass it along. They’ll get through them all well before the end of the night, anyway.

This is Dick’s favourite part - the decompression after a long mission, the relief that it’s over, the giddy acknowledgement that they survived, the longing to just be in each other’s company, utterly relaxed. It’s the closest they ever really get to a true break and Dick relishes it each and every time.

It’s so different from Batman, from Bruce, and Dick wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s on his second round of pizza before he thinks to check his phone. It’s not like he’s expecting anyone to have messaged him. The only people who have his phone number are also the people who knew he was off-world for a week. Dick doesn’t really have any normal friends.

So he’s a little surprised to have two missed calls from Barbara Gordon. He’s even more surprised to find a voicemail from _Bruce_.

For a moment, Dick considers just deleting it. It’s petty, but then, he often finds himself being petty with Bruce. And Dick isn’t too proud to force himself to listen to it. But something in Dick won’t let him do it, some slow creeping fear at the base of his spine. There’s no reason for his once-mentor to have called him when Bruce knew he was away and suddenly, Dick can’t shake the awful fear that something’s happened: to Bruce, to Alfred, maybe. As much as Dick and Bruce don’t really get on at the moment, Dick knows that he would be devastated if something had happened to him.

So he plays the voicemail, pressing his other hand against his ear to block out the sounds of his teammates joking and laughing around him.

It isn’t a long message: only about 5 seconds, in fact. Just Bruce’s voice, gruff and tense in a way that has Dick’s heart thumping in his chest.

_Call me when you get this. It’s an emergency._

Dick’s stomach does a strange somersault. An emergency. That’s never good, especially not spoken in Bruce’s gravelly voice. Dick doesn’t consider not calling back. That voicemail was left three days ago, he doesn’t want to know what could have happened in that time.

So he dials Bruce’s number, then jams the phone against his ear. As it rings, he drops his pizza back into the box and heads for his bedroom, waving a reassuring hand behind him at his teammates’ complaints as he does. He has a feeling this will be a conversation best had in private.

Bruce answers after just a few rings: “Bruce Wayne.”

“B? It’s me. What’s going on?”

There’s a slow breath on the other end of the line. Dick feels irritation rise in his throat.

“If this is just some sick way to get me to call-“

“It’s Jason.”

Dick cuts off abruptly at that. It’s Jason. And Dick feels a sick clench of guilt because he hadn’t even considered that it could be Jason in trouble. He hadn’t even thought about the kid.

“What about him?” Dick manages. He can hear the strain in his own voice, the tightness. When the silence stretches too long Dick prompts: “What happened?”

A hum. It’s the sound Bruce makes when he’s trying to get control of his voice. It’s not a good noise. In fact, it has Dick’s stomach swooping all the way down to his toes.

“There was an incident,” is what Bruce finally says, in a voice so level that Dick knows he’s had to work hard to flatten the emotion out of it. 

“An incident?” Dick prompts, when Bruce doesn’t say any more. This conversation is like pulling teeth.

“With the Joker.”

Dick’s chest throbs so suddenly that it takes his breath away. One hand lifts to press against the scar he knows is under his shirt, fingers rubbing over rough skin. He can feel the phantom wound, the memory of the bullet a sharp ache in his flesh.

An incident isn’t good. An incident with _the Joker_ is worse. Dick has never been as close as he should be to the kid Bruce had replaced him with, but the last thing he wants is the kid to be hurt. Or worse.

“The Joker? Jesus, is he OK?”

The silence that follows tells Dick the answer to that. His throat clamps shut like a vice. He can’t breathe. Jason’s fifteen. Dick shouldn’t have to worry if the last time they had spoken will be the _last_.

He feels dizzy, his head too light, as if it might float right off his shoulders.

“He’s not...God, he’s not dead is he?”

The words sound wrong in his mouth, too thick, too heavy. Bruce makes a strange choking, strangled noise.

Then: “No,” Bruce says, short and tense, and doesn’t elaborate.

“What happened?” Dick repeats.

“It’ll be better to tell you in person, I think.”

“ _Bruce_ , please. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“We’re in Ethiopia,” is all Bruce says in return and Dick feels a little whiplashed. “Landmark general hospital. Come as a civilian, OK? Alfred will meet you at the airport.”

Then he hangs up. Dick blinks into the silence, the phone still pressed to his ear. Then he drops it onto the bed and starts packing.

He packs light, although he has no idea what he needs or how long he’s going to be there. Throws whatever he finds into a bag and zips it shut. Wastes a good ten minutes looking for his passport and is practically frantic by the time he’s booked the next flight out of New York and is finally ready. All he can think about is that awful pause when he had asked if Jason was OK. All he can think about is that sweet, shy little smile Jason had given him when Dick had finally, finally told him he made a good Robin. The hero worship in his eyes the day they had first met.

“Where are you going?” Raven asks, when he emerges back into the rec room, backpack slung over one shoulder. They’re still working through the pizzas, looking happy and relaxed. Suddenly, Dick feels a hundred worlds away from them. “Is everything OK?”

“No,” Dick admits. “I don’t know. Something’s happened with Robin, my brother. He’s...I’ve got to get over there.”

A frown creases Raven’s face. The others are watching him with just as much concern and Dick feels strangely exposed.

“When will you return?” Kori asks around a mouthful of pizza.

Dick shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ll keep you updated. Sorry I can’t tell you more.”

“Be safe.”

It’s not himself that Dick is worried about.

⁂

The flight to Ethiopia gives Dick plenty of time to think. Too much time. Dick can’t stop himself from worrying, can’t stop thinking up a hundred different awful scenarios, all the terrible things that might have happened to Jason. Bruce had been frustratingly vague and Dick has enough experience with the clown to know that almost anything could have happened.

His chest throbs again. Dick rubs a hand across it in slow circles. He’s been worrying at the scar ever since Bruce’s call. The skin under his shirt is practically rubbed raw.

At first, Dick had tried to get some sleep. He’s exhausted after a full-on week long mission and ideally he’d be tucked up in bed right now, belly full of pizza, knowing that his teammates are safe in their own rooms. He needs the rest, especially if he’s going to have to face Bruce and all of the awkwardness and baggage that entails. But the moment Dick had shut his eyes, his brain had conjured up horrible visions of his little brother (as much as he _can_ call Jason that) lying hurt in some hospital bed. It had conjured an imaginary conversation where Bruce had called and told him he was too late, that Jason had died whilst Dick was sleeping on the plane. Had created a scenario where Bruce had been lying the whole time and Jason had been dead for days.

So in the end, Dick doesn’t sleep, just sits and worries and hopes. With each passing moment it’s getting harder to ignore the fact that he could know, if he wanted, that it would take just a few short minutes for Dick to discover everything Bruce hadn’t told him.

He shouldn’t, he has enough self-awareness to know that. _It’ll be better to tell you in person_ , Bruce had said, and Dick is sure that’s true. Whatever the Joker has done to Jason - and it must be bad if Bruce wants him to fly all the way to Ethiopia - Dick is sure it would be better to hear it from Bruce, from his dad. It’s an awful invasion of privacy to even consider hacking Jason’s medical files. And yet, Dick can’t stop thinking about it. Just a few minutes and he’ll know.

Dick takes out his tablet without even thinking about it. Then he simply holds it in his lap for a good ten minutes trying to talk himself out of it. He’d be furious, he knows, if Jason did the same to him. But on the other hand, he’s going to find out what happened when he gets there anyway. Jason won’t know that he looked. Bruce won’t have to either. And he isn’t sure if he can survive the rest of the flight not knowing. He just wants confirmation that Jason is OK.

In the end, it’s startlingly easy to get Jason’s medical records up. It’s considerably less easy to read them. He sticks to the information from this most recent hospitalisation and nothing else and there’s still enough there to make Dick feel queasy without even reading it. Reading it is even worse.

Fractured ribs, a broken arm, mangled hand, shattered hip. A head injury. A punctured lung and internal bleeding. A shattered orbital bone and fractured cheek. Every coldly clinical injury has Dick’s gorge rising. The Joker must have tortured Jason. He nearly killed him. The thought sends a cold chill over Dick’s skin.

Reading all of that, Dick doesn’t know how it could get any worse, short of the Joker having killed Jason. But then, somehow worse, somehow worst of all: evidence of serious sexual assault. Dick stalls over the words. Feels bile rise in the back of his throat in an inevitable wave, hot and bitter and burning. Saliva floods his mouth. He feels dizzy, cold and too hot at the same time.

Dick fumbles with the travel-sickness bag just in time to lose his dinner into it, half-digested pizza and stomach acid choking out of his throat. Dick gasps for breath. There’s a hot prickle behind his eyes that feels like the start of tears, but none fall. His face is wet with sweat, his mouth slick with vomit and saliva and his eyes are blurry, but there’s no tears.

Strangely, Dick feels guilt more than any other emotion. There’s anger of course, buzzing at the base of his skull, hot and tight like a vice in his chest. Sadness, too, and disgust, because Jason is a _child_ and despite everything the Joker has done, every innocent person he’s tortured and killed, Dick still struggles to imagine he’s capable of this.

But it’s the guilt that’s choking him. Guilt for giving in to his selfish desire to know. Guilt because this is something personal, something Jason should have been able to control, and Dick had trampled all over that - innocently and without knowing - but trampled nonetheless. And deeper than that, guilt that Dick wasn’t there, that he hasn’t been the brother to Jason that he should have been. That it’s been three days and Dick is only just finding out now.

It’s not Dick’s fault - he isn’t so blindly self-hating as to believe that - but the guilt is there nonetheless. God knows how Bruce, who has enough blind self-hatred for everyone, is feeling.

Dick feels bad enough.

He wishes he hadn’t looked. The tablet is sitting innocuously on his lap, screen dark, and suddenly Dick hates it, hates how little self-control he has, hates his stupid fucking brain for not just leaving it be. Dick could have waited, he could have slept through the flight and waited for Bruce to tell him what he wanted Dick to know and nothing more. It was selfish of him to look. What has Dick gained from knowing?

He knows Jason isn’t dead, he supposes, although it was obviously a close-run thing for a little while. And that’s another thing he hates - that they had come so close to losing Jason and Dick hadn’t even known. His little brother could have been gone for days and Dick wouldn’t have found out. But he had already known that. The only thing Dick has gained is new fuel for his awful imagination because, despite all the terrible images Dick had conjured up, he had never imagined _that_.

And now it’s in his brain and Dick can’t get rid of it.

It’s like the world’s worst movie - a showreel of horror that Dick didn’t even know his brain was capable of producing and he can’t stop it. Dick had thought that knowing would put his mind at ease. Instead, it’s only made his paranoid imaginings more vivid - only given him something real to go off of. Now he can’t help imagining exactly how Jason’s hip had been shattered. The pain on his face when the Joker had fractured his ribs. The Joker’s hands on him and…

Dick presses his fingers hard enough against his eyes that colours bloom in the darkness. It’s a small distraction, but Dick will take anything that cuts off that awful train of thought. There are still hours of the flight left. Dick isn’t sure if he can make it that long with only his churning thoughts for company.

If he could sleep it would be easier, but Dick is afraid of what he’ll see in his dreams.

⁂

True to Bruce’s word, Alfred is there to meet him when Dick finally emerges into the warm Ethiopian air. The butler looks older than Dick has ever seen him, face lined with exhaustion and pain. It makes something small and young in Dick squirm uncomfortably.

“How is he?” Dick asks, once they’re on the road. It’s not a long journey and Dick wants to ask before they reach the hospital. The medical notes had told him what he needed to know, but it isn't the same as hearing it from someone he loves and who loves Jason.

There’s a long silence that already tells Dick a lot. He watches the road slide past his window, pressing his forehead to the cool glass. It’s easier than looking at Alfred. He can feel the butler’s presence next to him, straight-backed and silent. He tries hard not to think about the file he had read, all the awful things it had contained.

“Master Jason is expected to live,” is what Alfred finally says. There’s a little tremour to the words that Dick wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know Alfred so well.

Dick notes the word choice, as well - expected to live, not make a full recovery, not that he’s going to be OK. It has something sour burning at the back of Dick’s throat. If that’s the best that they can hope for...

He doesn’t bother asking after Bruce. Those two questions are intrinsically linked. If Jason isn’t OK, then Bruce won’t be either. Dick dreads what condition the two of them will be in.

“How did this happen, Alfred?”

It comes out more pained that Dick intended, thick and raw with his agony. Alfred makes a soft sound, an unusual break in his British stoicism. When Dick glances at him, his knuckles are white around the steering wheel.

“I don’t know Master Richard,” he says gently, as they turn into the hospital car park. “I’m afraid you will have to ask Master Bruce.”

Dick leaves his meager luggage in the car. There’s a hotel, Alfred tells him, as they check in for visiting hours and Alfred leads him to the right room. Not that Bruce has used it. He’s slept in the hospital every night, although Jason has only been conscious a few times, and never coherently. The nurses had tried to get him to leave but Bruce had refused so vehemently that they had given in. 

Dick isn’t surprised by that. He doubts anyone could truly stand up to a furious, protective, guilt-ridden Bruce and get their way.

Alfred raps lightly on the door before pushing it open and stepping inside. Dick has to shut his eyes and take a deep, steadying breath before he can follow. He both knows exactly what he’s going to find, and somehow isn’t prepared for it.

Dick’s eyes zero in on Jason the moment he steps through the door. His little brother seems to have a strange gravity to him, as if Dick and Bruce and Alfred are satellites, orbiting around him, and Dick doesn’t resist the pull. He barely notices Bruce, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair at the side of the bed. Can’t pull his eyes away from Jason long enough to acknowledge him.

Jason is lying amongst so many wires and machines that it’s hard to get a good look at him. An IV cord snakes out of his bandaged right arm, a cannula rests above his swollen lips, filtering oxygen through his nose. Part of Jason’s head is shaved, his lovely black curls shorn away, a strange little gauze cap covering the damage. Dick doesn’t want to think about the rest of his injuries, hidden under sterile white sheets and bulky bandages. He can see a purple bruise edging beneath the pale skin of Jason’s jaw and just that is enough to have his chest clenching.

A heart monitor beeps somewhere to Jason’s left, a steady, strong beat. Dick shuts his eyes and listens to its easy rhythm and tries not to pass out on Jason’s hospital room floor.

A hand grips his shoulder, then Dick is pulled into a fierce hug, two thick arms wrapping so tightly around him that he can barely breathe, his face mushed into a broad chest. Bruce smells terrible - like 3 days of sweat and fear and the faint scent of antiseptic and expensive cologne. Clearly he hasn’t even bothered to change his clothes. But Dick doesn’t pull away, gripping back just as tightly. Stubble rubs painfully against Dick’s skin when Bruce presses their cheeks together, cupping the back of Dick’s head to tilt his face up towards him. There are tears, wet between their skin. Dick can’t even tell which one of them is crying.

“Dick,” Bruce says, rough and low, and there are so many things Dick wants to say to him - a hundred questions, a hundred arguments - but all he can do is stand there, swaying in his father’s arms, mute. They seem inconsequential now, in the face of Bruce’s fear and anger.

“Is he going to be OK?” Is all Dick can seem to manage in return, pressed into Bruce’s rumpled shirt. And Bruce sobs, _sobs_ , and in Dick’s breathless surprise, he doesn’t have the strength to hold them up when Bruce’s knees give way.

They crash to the linoleum floor together and Dick lands awkwardly on his leg in a way he knows will bruise but he doesn’t let go. Vaguely, Dick is aware of Alfred hovering beside them, of Jason breathing and _living_ in the bed behind them. But most of his senses are taken up by Bruce, clutching at him like a drowning man, sobbing loud and rough in Dick’s ear, the scratch of his stubble and bruising press of his fingers.

“It’s OK,” Dick says, startled and sick with fear and grief, not knowing if what he’s saying is even remotely true. “It’s OK, dad. He’ll be OK.”

And Bruce only sobs louder in response.

⁂

“What happened, B?” Dick asks, once Bruce has finally calmed down enough to sit across from him, on the other side of Jason’s bed.

The plastic chair is hard and uncomfortable under Dick. His knee throbs from its impromptu date with the ground and his eyes are so gritty from sleep-deprivation that it feels as though he’s rubbing sandpaper across them every time he blinks. None of that matters though. Not when he’s holding Jason’s limp, bandaged hand in his own and his brother is so _still_ and hurt and all of Dick’s little aches are nothing compared to the damage the Joker inflicted on him.

And Dick wants to know how. He wants to know what happened out here, when Dick hadn’t even known they were out of Gotham.

For a long moment, Bruce doesn’t answer. One of his hands is brushing idly back and forth across Jason’s jaw, his eyes fixed on the even rise and fall of Jason’s chest. Dick feels that same irritation from earlier in his throat. Wants to prompt Bruce, to yell at him maybe, but he’s too scared. Bruce seems so fragile.

“How was your mission?” Bruce finally asks, instead of answering.

Dick bites back his instinctive reply. The last thing he wants to do is get in a shouting match here, with Jason lying between them.

“Fine,” he says, between his teeth. “We all made it back safe.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Then, nothing. It’s as if Dick hadn’t asked. It’s as if Dick doesn’t exist.

“I read his medical file,” Dick says, impulsively, already regretting the words the moment he says them. He’s not entirely sure why he admits it: to get a rise out of Bruce, maybe, to force him into talking, or maybe just to relieve himself of the heavy burden of it, sitting like a stone in his chest.

Bruce looks up at him then and his face is as white as the sheets covering Jason, his jaw a tense, sharp line. But he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Dick with eyes so dark they look liquid. Dick stares back, caught between shying away from his father’s agony or matching it with his own.

“I’m sorry,” Dick says, finally, when he can’t stand the silence any longer. His voice sounds weak and reedy. He doesn’t know what he’s apologising for - for prying where he wasn’t needed, for burdening Bruce with that knowledge, for every awful thing that has happened. “I shouldn’t have. I - I just wanted to know...to know he was…”

He cuts off with a choking sound. How can he explain his selfish desire to know Jason was OK, when his brother so clearly isn’t?

“Did the Joker - did he really -“ and he stumbles over the word. Hates himself. Hates the Joker more than anything, with a rage so strong that his whole body feels flushed with it. “Did the Joker really rape him?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. He knows he had. He’d read the evidence of it in Jason’s file. And yet, he can’t help hoping that Bruce will prove him wrong.

That hope dies when Bruce flinches. There’s a flash of such devastating grief across his father’s face that Dick’s breath catches, before Bruce drops his gaze back to the bed, half-hiding his expression.

“I don’t -“ Bruce swallows. Clears his throat. One of his hands is clenched against his thigh, fist so tight that his knuckles are as white as the sheets. “I don’t know exactly what he did to him. I...it’s not like he’s been able to tell me. But I…”

He swallows again, his throat clicking dryly. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the bed. Dick can hear how much this is costing him. There’s tension in every word.

“The Joker had him in some warehouse. Jason found his birth mother here in Ethiopia and she - she sold him out to that _freak_. By the time I realised what had happened, he’d had him for over an hour.”

Bruce stops. Dick can see his eyes shutter. Can hear the ragged breaths he takes to calm himself down. Dick feels queasy. An _hour_. Despite knowing exactly what injuries had been inflicted on Jason, Dick still stalls over the idea of that. How scared must Jason have been? Locked in a warehouse with the Joker for so long, terrified and in pain, wondering desperately if Bruce would get to him in time, or if maybe this time he would be too late.

A chill shivers over Dick’s skin. Bruce doesn’t seem to notice.

“When I kicked the door open the Joker was…God, there was so much blood. And that son of a bitch was _on top of Jason_ , crouching over him. It was obvious what he was doing. Jason’s uniform was torn off of him and...and he...I was so angry, Dick. I was…”

“Did you kill him?” Dick asks, and he’s surprised by how calm he sounds. He’s surprised, too, by the realisation that he _wants_ Bruce to have done it. More than anyone, Dick has always understood Bruce’s strict adherence to his code. He knows exactly how easy it can be to take that power and twist it into something evil. Just one tip of the scales, a featherweight addition, and suddenly you’re everything you once claimed to hate.

But this isn’t about that. Despite the costumes and the aliases, this isn’t about Batman and Robin and the Joker. This is about Bruce Wayne’s _son_ being tortured and _raped_ and how can Dick blame him for his reaction to that? Bruce could tell him he had tortured the Joker to death and Dick doesn’t think he would flinch.

“I wanted to,” Bruce says and he finally lifts his eyes to meet Dick’s. There’s a steadiness to his gaze that settles something in Dick, despite everything else. “When I saw him like that...I wanted to. I broke both his arms. For touching Jason like that. His legs too. Some ribs.”

All Dick can do is nod, helplessly. “I don’t blame you, B.”

“I didn’t kill him,” Bruce snaps back. It’s hard to tell exactly what Bruce is feeling - if the hard, glass-flat sound of his voice is regret or something else. “There was a bomb. The Joker was going to kill Jason with it. I didn’t set it off, but I made sure he couldn’t get out.”

“Good,” says Dick, savagely. 

It must surprise Bruce because he twitches, his eyes flashing wide, mouth pressing flat - or flatter, Dick should say. Dick doesn’t know what reaction Bruce was expecting from him. Maybe he was anticipating a lecture or an argument or some sappy bullshit about how _this doesn’t mean you’ve crossed the line, Bruce, if you didn’t really kill him, Bruce_. Maybe in another life. Not in this one. Not with Jason’s fingers limp between his own and that burning, scorching anger in his throat.

“I hope he fucking rots.”

For a long moment, Bruce just stares at him, an odd expression on his face, torn between shock and something strangely fond. Then he drops his gaze back to his youngest son before ghosting the backs of his knuckles carefully over the curve of Jason’s cheek.

Dick can’t help but think that’s something like agreement.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some sensory-style flashbacks in this chapter but nothing too graphic.
> 
> There’s bits of this chapter I’m not too sure about, but there’s only so much editing I can do lols! I hope you guys enjoy it anyway :)

Jason is dragged into consciousness like he owes it something: a slow, agonising slide through each heavy layer of sleep then sudden, cold wakefulness. It’s not the first time he’s been pulled out of unconsciousness, but there’s something different about it this time - an awareness that wasn’t there before. When Jason tries to sink back into the heavy blackness, it resists, turned rigid and fragile. It shatters when Jason reaches for it until all that’s left is the imprint of light against his eyelids, a thrum of noise, the sensation of something against his skin.

The dream chases him - the nightmare. Hands and pain and darkness. The coppery tang of blood on his tongue and the stench of decay in his nose and that awful cackling laugh in his ears. Jason whimpers without meaning to and, God, that hurts. The noise comes out a feeble thing, shredded to nothing in his throat.

Someone touches him and Jason tries to flinch away but his body is too heavy, unresponsive. It’s as though he’s inhabiting only a tiny part of himself, the rest of him just useless flesh, except it _hurts_ too much for that to be true. The pain feels far away right now, dulled, but it’s edging at his awareness, circling for an opening to make itself known.

Something hot and wet trickles over his temple, forging a fiery path all the way to his ear. Something else chases it - a thumb maybe? - warm and flat and calloused. Jason tries to blink his eyes open, to see what’s touching him, but his eyelids feel too heavy to lift.

“It’s OK, Jay-lad.” And Jason recognises that voice. It’s deep and warm and familiar. It sounds like comfort. It sounds like home. Jason tries to turn his head towards it but only manages an aborted twitch. “It’s OK, chum. Don’t cry.”

_Bruce_ , Jason’s mind supplies, _dad_. Then, because his mind is an asshole, it follows that up with the sound of crunching bone and choked-off laughter and Bruce’s desperate voice and the wet slap of skin against ski-

_No._

Jason’s eyes snap open without any conscious input from his brain. For a long, frightening moment, the world is just a blurry streak of white and light and confusion. Jason’s eyes roll desperately, trying to make sense of where he is - who he’s with. It should be dark, he thinks. It was dark in the warehouse. And the Joker was there. The Joker was -

“Look at me, Jay. Jay-lad, can you look at me, son?”

Jason follows the instructions automatically, instinctively. There’s a weight behind the words that means it’s important and, as contrary as Jason can be sometimes, he knows the value of following orders. It can mean the difference between life and death in the field.

Bruce’s face looms into view above him and Jason’s eyes snap straight to him. There’s still a strange, blurry quality to the world and it fuzzes Bruce into a vague beige circle. The fluorescent hospital light halos him from behind, bright white hazing around the edges of his face and the dark strands of his hair.

“B?” Jason says, or tries to. His throat clenches in agonised protest around the word and it comes out a pitiful rasp.

Bruce still seems to understand him though. He always does. “Yeah, sweetheart, it’s me.”

Jason blinks at that and another hot trail cuts across his skin. Bruce’s face sharpens, focussing for one brief moment before he blurs again. Tears, Jason realises. It’s tears that are blurring his vision, alternately hazing, then sharpening the world around him as they fall then well again.

Jason isn’t even entirely sure why he’s crying.

A hand presses against his cheek. It’s so soft that Jason can barely feel it. But it’s real. Grounding. It feels nothing like the painful press of gloved fingers, claws digging into his flesh, hurting and taking. It’s warm and firm and gentle. Jason tilts his head a little, seeking out the touch. The world spins at just that tiny movement, but Bruce’s hand against him holds him steady. Bruce’s face, still filling his vision, keeps him in the here and now.

“Do you need some ice?” Bruce asks, voice gruff.

Jason thinks he manages to nod. Either way, Bruce’s hand disappears and Jason tries to whine at the loss of contact but the noise doesn’t quite make it out if his throat. Then Bruce is back almost as soon as he had gone, one warm hand smoothing over Jason’s forehead, the other nudging a little plastic spoon of ice against Jason’s chapped lips.

“Slowly,” Bruce warns as he helps tip it onto Jason’s tongue.

Jason hadn’t even realised how dry his mouth was until that first cool touch. It’s heaven on his sticky tongue. The trickle of water down his abused throat hurts enough that more hot tears well in his eyes, but the relief is worth that and more. When he opens his mouth, Bruce obediently spoons another sliver of ice onto his tongue and Jason starts to feel just a little more human.

“Better?” Bruce hums. His hand is still on Jason’s forehead, smoothing back through his curls.

Jason lets his eyes slide shut. It should be a relief, but instead the darkness feels oppressive. With his eyes shut, Jason can’t tell who’s touching him. He can’t tell where he is. 

And that’s stupid, because he knows he’s in the hospital. Beyond the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, he can hear the steady beep of a heart monitor and Bruce’s even breaths. He knows it’s Bruce touching him because he’d just _seen_ him. But that doesn’t stop his breath from hitching. It doesn’t stop his heart from racketing against his chest.

Jason tries to open his eyes again but they’re too heavy.

“Breathe, Jason. You’re OK. C’mon, open your eyes again kiddo.”

But it’s too late. Cruel hands are dragging Jason back into the darkness. There’s manic laughter in his ears, drowning out Bruce’s reassurances, drowning out his own ragged breaths and even the thud of his pulse in his head. Then there’s nothing at all.

⁂

Jason drifts for a while, after that. He’s aware, on some level, of things happening around him. There’s the murmur of low voices, the shuffle of bodies moving around the room and the steady beep of medical equipment.

It’s nice where he is though, not deep enough for nightmares and memories, but not awake enough to hurt. He doesn’t have to deal with anyone like this. Doesn’t have to face Bruce and his pity and his stifling concern. But he knows that he’s there, sitting beside him. It settles the small, frightened thing in Jason’s chest, to feel his presence.

Whenever Jason surfaces from his shallow sleep, Bruce is there. Leaning over him on the bed, or slumped back in the little plastic chair, or standing by the window, staring out into the car park. Sometimes Bruce is sleeping, his face slack and pale. Sometimes his eyes are red and puffy and Jason has the uncomfortable realisation that his dad has been crying.

Sometimes Alfred is there, sitting quietly with Bruce or fussing with the bedsheets. If he notices Jason is awake, he always offers him a warm smile and a reassuring pat on whatever undamaged part of Jason he can reach. Talking hurts and Jason’s brain struggles to form the words anyway, so he can only manage to smile back before he slips under again.

It makes him want to stay awake, but Jason can never manage it for long. The painkillers they have him on are pretty heavy duty, apparently - and Bruce had had to hold him through his instinctive panic at that, one hand flat against the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest, his forehead pressed against Jason’s, breathing steadily in example. When Jason had slipped back under the riptide drag of the drugs and the pain, Bruce had still been draped over him, Jason’s heart thumping under his palm.

“Where are we?” Jason asks, once, slurred around his thick tongue. He has no idea how long it’s been since the warehouse, the days shattered into little jumbled fragments of time.

Bruce smooths his curls back from his sweaty forehead. “We’re still in Ethiopia kiddo. They don’t want you moved yet.”

Ethiopia. Jason should have expected that and yet, it still makes his stomach feel hollow. How did he get out of that warehouse? Jason doesn’t really remember. There are...flashes of memory: the Joker leaning over him, the crash of the door splintering open and Bruce’s thunderous roar, the crack and gurgle of breaking bones. Then his dad, bending over him and his gentle hands and his low voice and the pain that had speared through Jason’s entire being with each careful movement.

Then, nothing.

Bruce must have gotten him to the hospital, somehow. It’s all a dark black hole in Jason’s head until that first terrified waking. Why aren’t they back in Gotham? Where is the Joker?

A chill shivers across Jason’s skin. What if he’s still in Ethiopia? What if he comes to find him? To finish him off, maybe, or for the second round he had threatened when he’d been on top of Jason, pressing him into the concrete.

The chill tightens to something painful, hot pins and needles across his body. His skin feels too tight, stretched across his swollen flesh.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks, alarm in his voice.

Jason tries to force the fear back. He doesn’t quite manage to squeeze it out of his voice though. “Where is _he_?”

Stupidly, Jason can’t even bring himself to say his name. It’s not like Bruce doesn’t know who he’s talking about, anyway. His face goes tight, mouth a flat black line, and there’s something in his eyes that Jason can’t read.

Bruce is quiet for long enough that Jason starts to think he isn’t going to answer him. Then: “He’s dead, Jay. He can’t hurt you any more.”

For some reason, Jason’s breath catches. He isn’t even sure what he was expecting Bruce to say. That the Joker has been taken back to Arkham, maybe, or locked up here in Ethiopia or even that he’s lying in some hospital bed somewhere just as Jason is, wrapped in a full-body cast and unlikely to cause any trouble anytime soon. But dead? That wasn’t even something Jason had thought to consider. It hadn’t even registered in Jason’s head.

But if the Joker _is_ dead, does that mean...did _Batman_ kill him? 

The thought settles strangely in his chest. Jason isn’t stupid; he knows what Bruce, his dad, must have seen when he’d burst into the warehouse. The Joker had been a burning, unyielding line of pain straight through Jason, and then he’d been gone, only air and shame at Jason’s back. As much as Jason tries to pretend it didn’t happen - even if only in his own head - he can’t avoid the fact that Bruce must have _seen_. He must _know_.

At best, Bruce had seen the bloody mess the Joker had made of him ( _the whoosh of the crowbar through the air, the low thud of metal against flesh, which hurts more? Forehand or backhand?_ ). At worst, Bruce might have seen...worse. Jason tries to imagine what he would have done if he were in Bruce’s place, but the thought feels too abstract to take hold. Jason wasn’t in Bruce’s place, he was in Jason’s, crushed beneath the weight of the Joker above him, his panted breaths loud in his ear, slick liquid between his thighs.

Would Jason have killed for that? Would Bruce? 

Jason isn’t sure if he wants to know the answer to that. He’s not sure if he wants it to be a yes or a no. Neither one seem right to him.

He shuts his eyes and tries not to feel queasy at the thought of what could have happened. The hand on his head jostles him, lightly, but Jason refuses to open them again. Maybe Bruce thinks it’s relief - there certainly is relief at the knowledge that the Joker can’t hurt him again, can’t _touch_ him again. But Jason is too raw and out of his head to really know what he feels.

“You’re safe now, Jay,” Bruce murmurs. It’s hard to tell whether he knows Jason can hear him or whether he thinks Jason is sleeping again. Something about the thought of Bruce talking to Jason while he’s unconscious, reassuring him even when he can’t hear him, makes Jason’s chest tight. “He won’t ever touch you again.”

The hand lifts from Jason’s forehead. It’s replaced by the soft brush of Bruce’s lips.

“I promise.”

⁂

“You gonna stay awake this time Little Wing?”

There’s amusement in Dick’s voice, but there’s an edge to it too. Concern, maybe, a sharp blade beneath the words. It makes Jason flush, hot embarrassment forcing blood beneath his skin.

“Shut up, Dickface,” he croaks. The words don’t come out quite right. They were supposed to be angry but his voice is too weak for that. Instead, he just sounds pathetic.

When he had come to, earlier, thrashing awake from a nightmare of grasping hands and blood and fear, both Bruce and Dick had been leaning over him, identical expressions of concern and something that had made Jason’s stomach squirm, on their faces. It had been an uncomfortable shock, seeing his supposed older brother there. For a moment, Jason hadn’t been sure where he was or what had happened. Before now, Jason had been sure Dick would only come visit him if he was dying.

Maybe he is. Jason certainly feels like it.

His heart is still racing from the dream and the terror of waking, thundering in his chest. It makes him feel lightheaded, as if his blood is rushing too strongly to offer him enough oxygen. Or maybe that’s because his lungs are pressed flat beneath his broken ribs. His pulse throbs sickly in his throat and in each and every bruise that litters his body. There are so many of them that it feels as though his whole being is one huge wound.

The pain that had only been circling earlier is now all he can think about. Jason feels more awake now than he has since the warehouse. His other bouts of consciousness had been brief, transient moments of awareness. This feels more solid. More real. Less like he’s going to slip back into the blackness at any moment.

He’s not sure he likes it.

Neither Dick nor Bruce have reprimanded him for the insult and Jason would enjoy that if he wasn’t so aware of exactly why they let it slip. He wants to rub a hand across his face, to quell the itchy, too-tight sensation of his skin and hide him, for a moment, from his family’s too-bright stares, but one of his arms is wrapped in a plaster cast and the other ends in a mit of tightly-wrapped bandages, so all he can do is tilt his face and shut his eyes and pretend that, if he can’t see them, they can’t see him either.

“You gonna make it worth it?”

That doesn’t come out right either: too breathless, too slow, strangely slurred with pain. Dick laughs but that sounds wrong too, tight and strained. His hand lifts, as if to ruffle Jason’s hair and Jason flinches before he can stop himself. Dick snatches his hand back, looking stricken.

“‘M sorry,” Jason manages into the silence that follows. It’s not what he had meant to say, but it’s what comes out. Something hard and hot rises through Jason’s chest and lodges itself in this throat, forcing more words out before it. “I didn’t - I’m sorry - I…”

If anything, Dick looks even worse at that. He makes to reach for Jason again, then obviously hesitates, his hands wavering in the air in front of him, unsure where to land. “Hey, no it’s OK. It’s not your fault, Jay.”

“I know,” Jason snaps. His face feels unbearably hot, as if there’s a fire raging under his skin. He can’t help wondering if he’s as red as he feels, or if the swelling and the bruises are hiding the worst of it.

“OK,” Dick agrees, lamely, and he drops both of his hands back into his lap.

God, Jason’s pathetic. It was only Dick. He was only going to ruffle Jason’s hair like he’s done a hundred times before, messing Jason’s curls into a tangled mess with a stupid, dopey grin on his face. He knows Dick wouldn’t hurt him. He _knows_. And yet…

_Fingers threading through his curls, clenching hard enough to rip his hair right out at the roots. The awkward stretch of his neck as his head is yanked back, the ache of bruises pressed into his throat, the sharper stab of bite marks as his skin twists. Hot breath against his ear._

Jason swallows against a sudden surge of bile. It hurts, burning his already aching throat, pooling at the back of his mouth, bitter and sour. He tries to breathe evenly through his nose but he knows his chest is moving too quickly. There’s something like a whimper trapped between his teeth. Jason tries to swallow it back into his chest and mostly manages it.

“Everything alright?” Bruce asks, gently. 

The expression on Bruce’s face is too soft, too close to pity. It doesn’t help ease the awful tightness in Jason’s chest.

“Fine,” he mutters. 

He wants to cross his arms but he can’t. He wants to roll over or curl in on himself but he’s trapped on his back in the bed like a tortoise with its belly in the air or a dead bug. It’s like he’s been transformed, like Gregor Samsa in _Metamorphosis_ , changed into something ugly and monstrous. Something broken.

Bruce and Dick exchange a look that Jason probably wasn’t supposed to see. It makes Jason feel like a little kid. Like he’s back in his shitty crime alley apartment and his mama and Willis are yelling back and forth at each other over Jason’s head. When Dick turns back to the bed, his expression has smoothed into a pleasant smile, but Jason didn’t miss the pained crease of his face and the flat black line of his mouth.

“What’s worth staying awake for then, Little Wing?” Dick teases, all smiles and forced cheer. 

Jason wants to shrug but he can’t move his shoulders that way. “Chili dogs,” he says, because he knows it will make Dick laugh again and he can’t stand the way his older brother is looking at him.

Dick laughs obligingly. “I don’t think I can manage that. Maybe Alfred will make you some when you get home, if you ask nicely.”

Then Dick’s jaw snaps shut, as if he’s just realised he’s said something he shouldn’t. Jason isn’t entirely sure what he’s said wrong but there’s a sudden tension in the air, something strained and fragile. Bruce’s face is tight with pain.

Tentatively, Jason asks, “When _am_ I going home?”

He knows it won’t be for a while. He’s aware of the extent of his injuries - he’d been there when he’d got them, after all. But he can’t stop the hopeful little question from slipping out.

Dick’s face moves strangely, as if he wants to grimace but is fighting against it. Beside him, Bruce’s expression is soft but impassive.

“We don’t know, Jaylad,” Bruce says, gently. “When you’re feeling a little better, maybe.” Then, as if sensing the opportunity: “How _are_ you feeling?”

How is he feeling? In his half-awake state, Jason hasn’t really thought about it too hard.

Now that Bruce has directed his attention to it though, Jason is suddenly aware, again, of how much he’s hurting. When he’d woken before, the drugs had been a spongy layer between Jason and the sharp agony of his injuries. There’s still something there - a layer of not-sensation that’s almost certainly dulling the pain. When Jason lets his head go fuzzy, like unfocusing his eyes just right for one of those seeing-eye puzzles, he can feel it drape across him like a shroud. 

Right now, though, Jason feels a little like he’s naked in the cold light of day. His chest is screaming with every breath, his arm aches beneath the cast, his face throbs, pain spidering across his whole head, worming beneath his skull until even his brain is hurting. And worse than that, Jason’s shattered hip feels like lightening under his skin. The pain is like a poison, webbing across his entire pelvis. And, under that, there’s the dull pulse deep inside him that Jason is trying hard not to think about.

Somehow, Jason doesn’t think it would be a very good idea to tell his dad that. So he swallows against the pain and his voice is surprisingly steady when he manages, “‘M tired.”

“You can sleep if you want,” Dick interjects, immediately, even though he was the one telling Jason not to just a few minutes ago. “You don’t have to stay awake for us.”

“‘S all I’ve _been_ doing,” Jason complains.

Sleeping does sound good right now, though. It would be an escape from the pain and the awkward tension in the room and Dick’s stupid face. But Jason is tired of being unconscious. He’s tired of waking up terrified and confused, phantom hands and remembered blows following him out of the darkness.

He knows that Bruce and Dick will just start talking about him the moment he falls asleep, any way.

“You’re healing,” Bruce tells him, earnestly. “It’s OK to rest.”

Jason scowls. He doesn’t need to be coddled. Or, at least, he doesn’t _want_ to need to be coddled. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“OK,” Dick says, too brightly. “You don’t have to. We could play a game.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “I’m fifteen,” and for some reason that makes Dick flinch, “not five.”

“So? The Titans and I play games all the time. It’ll be fun.”

Something bitter curls through Jason’s stomach. Even now, Dick can’t stop thinking about his better team. Those few times Dick had come to Gotham, it had always been obvious that he had wanted to be back there instead. He had always been good to Jason, even if Jason had been prickly and withdrawn in return, but it hadn’t been hard to see that he was doing it out of obligation - that if he could have, he would never have come back at all. Jason had always told himself he didn’t care - what did he need a big brother for anyway? - but it’s a difficult pill to swallow whilst Jason is confined to a hospital bed, Bruce and Dick and Alfred his only company.

“Well why don’t you go back to the Titans then?” Jason snaps, bitterly. “You don’t want to be here, anyway.”

Dick looks a little like Jason has slapped him. He sits back, face pale, blinking in shock. Guilt tries to creep its way into Jason’s chest, but he pushes it away. Maybe Dick is just surprised to be called out in front of Bruce like that.

“What? Jay...that’s not...that’s not true.” His mouth works soundlessly, like a fish. “Yeah, I don’t want to be here because I don’t want _you_ to be here. But I’d rather be with you than the Titan’s, Jay.”

Jason desperately wants to cross his arms but all he can do is turn his head away. It sounds nice but Jason doesn’t believe it. He isn’t going to beg for anyone’s affection, though. Just complaining was too much of an admittance that he cares.

“C’mon, you’re my little brother. Of course I want to be here.”

“Whatever,” Jason mutters. His face feels hot, embarrassed by his own neediness. “I don’t care. Just start your stupid game.”

“OK,” Dick says and he sounds a little sad. “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with...B.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read this fic so far, especially if you left a kudos, bookmarked or commented!
> 
> Alfred’s POV was so hard to write guys - why did I do it? 😩

Alfred isn’t used to feeling useless. He doesn’t like it. Normally, Alfred has chores to do, groceries to buy or the huge manor to clean or medical supplies to arrange. When Bruce - or God forbid Dick or Jason - are hurt, Alfred is usually right there to patch them up or coordinate with Doctor Leslie. He’s used to enforcing bed rest and changing dressings and making healthy soups to help them heal. 

Now there’s almost nothing for Alfred to do. Their hotel room is minimalist and employs a cleaner who’s thoroughness almost matches even Alfred’s high standards. Each morning, he makes the beds and folds the towels. All of his own belongings are folded neatly in the provided drawers or hung up in the wardrobe. Then he makes his way over to Dick’s room and does the same, with the added chore of picking up all of the clothes that Dick has left strewn around the room and opening the curtains to let the light stream in. 

There’s no point in worrying about Bruce’s room - he hasn’t actually been back there. Alfred will collect a clean set of clothes, but there’s no guarantee that Bruce will change into them.

Then he and Dick will head over to see Jason.

_It’s Jason,_ Bruce had said, what seems like years ago, before Alfred had even had the chance to greet him, and Alfred’s stomach had swooped so low that he could feel it in his toes. _I - I need you Alfred._

Alfred had, understandably, assumed the worst. It had been impossible to get any more details out of Bruce, who had babbled frantically into the phone, then simply hung up on him before Alfred could ask any more. Alfred had comforted himself on the far too long plane journey with the knowledge that if Jason were...if he were dead, Bruce probably wouldn’t have bothered to call. It was not of as much comfort as one might expect.

In the end, it hadn’t been as bad as his dark thoughts had convinced him it would be, but only barely. When Alfred had finally gotten to the hospital, Jason had still been in surgery. An almost twenty hour flight and the doctors were still trying desperately to save him. Bruce had been slumped in the family waiting room, his head in his hands, the burly arm of Clark Kent wrapped securely around his shoulder.

It must have been bad, Alfred had thought, if Superman was involved.

When Jason had finally emerged, that thought had been confirmed. There had been almost no part of Jason that wasn’t hurt, wrapped in white bandages or covered in gauze or simply darkening with bruises. Alfred had stared at him until his vision blurred. He had looked so small. So young.

Even now, awake and far more lively than Alfred has seen him since, Jason looks like he might shatter in a strong breeze.

“Dick said you’d make me chili dogs when I get home,” Jason tells him, through a mouthful of hospital jello.

Alfred is having to feed it to him - with one arm broken and a mangled hand at the end of the other, there isn’t much that Jason can really do for himself. It’s obviously frustrating the boy but there isn’t exactly anything they can do about it.

“Did he?” Alfred asks, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t know if that fits into your recovery plan.”

In truth, Alfred would happily give Jason anything he asked of him. Chili dogs are a small price to pay in exchange for having Jason healthy and happy at home where he belongs. And Alfred has sorely missed his kitchen and his home-cooked food and the little boy who always gets under his feet, asking questions and trying to taste everything before Alfred is done.

The hand that Alfred usually gently smacks away from too-hot cookies or just-stirred sauce, is now nothing but a mass of white bandages where it rests on the sheets. Underneath that, Alfred knows that his fingers are torn apart, crushed under the blow of the crowbar the Joker had used to torture him. The spoon Alfred is holding up trembles, the little blob of jello shaking with the movement. 

Jason’s eyes flicker to it and something in his face crumples. It makes Alfred’s chest ache. What a foolish old man he is, not able to keep himself in check for longer than ten minutes. He drops the spoon back into the cup and smooths his hand against his thigh to stop the shaking. Jason hitches a smile back onto his face, smoothing his pained expression out as easily as if it had never been there. A bad habit, no doubt picked up from Bruce.

Alfred will have to keep on top of that. He knows that he’s not blameless - he has hardly been the model of emotional availability. But it has always been hard to find that line between butler and family. Alfred isn’t sure if he’s ever quite gotten it right.

“What’s wrong with chilli dogs?” Jason asks, a rictus sort of grin on his face. “Not exactly gonna rebreak my bones, is it?”

Alfred can’t stop himself from wincing. It’s not the first time that Jason has broken a bone. Alfred has dealt with plenty of plaster casts and all the frustration that entails. He’s dealt with worse too - stab wounds and burns and that awful gunshot wound that had nearly killed Dick. But even that - and God that had been bad - can barely touch this.

“I suppose that is, technically, correct Master Jason,” Alfred manages. Even he is impressed by the steadiness of his voice.

Jason sighs. “I miss your cooking Alfie. This hospital food is shi-...terrible.”

Alfred allows himself a little smile at that. Jason has always appreciated his cooking more than anyone else. Bruce tends to eat as though it is only another chore that needs completing, just something that his body needs and he must therefore supply. Alfred has no idea what he’s been eating here at the hospital - vending machine snacks or Jason’s left-overs perhaps. They had finally convinced him to return to the hotel for a proper shower, some real food, and some sleep in an actual bed, today. Dick had gone back with him to ensure that he actually does it, rather than rushing straight back to the hospital. It’s why Alfred is alone today. Except for Jason, of course.

Jason had been sleeping when Bruce left, his little swollen face slack and surprisingly peaceful. When he’d woken, the first thing he had done was look for Bruce, his eyes wide but strangely glazed. They had skipped right over Alfred and straight into panic when Jason had realised that his father wasn’t there.

“B?” He’d gasped, voice high and disturbingly childlike. “Dad?”

Alfred had perched himself on the edge of Jason’s bed and gently tapped Jason’s blanket-covered shin.

“It’s OK, Master Jason, he’s just gone to take a shower. He will be back shortly.”

When Jason had finally looked properly at him, his eyes had seemed to clear and a tentative smile had replaced the panic.

“Alfie!” He’d said and the simple pleasure in his voice had warmed Alfred’s old heart.

It hasn’t been long since then, but already he seems to be starting to flag. The painkillers and his injuries have made him easily tired and Jason spends most of his time sleeping. It’s better than him being in pain, Alfred supposes, but it’s a stark contrast from the usual energy that Jason possesses. The difference makes Alfred’s throat feel too tight.

“And it’s so boring,” Jason continues, shifting as much as he’s able on the bed. Alfred had carefully propped him up to eat his jello, but there isn’t really a position that takes the pressure off both his ribs and hip and it’s obvious that Jason is uncomfortable.

Alfred leans forward to assist him, plumping his pillows and fussing with the bedsheets until he’s satisfied. Jason allows it, although Alfred knows it grates on him to be coddled.

“It will be over soon Master Jason,” Alfred tells him, as he smooths the sheets around him. “You will be home before you know it.”

“Not soon enough,” Jason mutters, sinking back against the pillows with a sigh. He looks terribly pale and small against the stark white, his dark curls haloing his face. “Will you read to me?”

His voice is soft and Alfred can hear the embarrassment in it, as if he’s ashamed of asking this small thing from him. Jason’s mouth twists ruefully as he shifts his arm a little, drawing Alfred’s attention back to those hateful bandages.

“I would read it myself but…”

“Of course, Master Jason,” Alfred says, before Jason can think too much. “And what are we reading today?”

“It’s Things fall apart,” Jason says, a moment before Alfred reads the cover himself. “I didn’t pick it.”

Alfred decides against commenting on that.

⁂

When he isn’t with Jason, Alfred keeps himself busy with the necessary admin that comes with being Bruce Wayne. Superman had offered to keep an eye on Gotham whilst the Batman was indisposed and Bruce had begrudgingly agreed, despite his no metas in Gotham rule. But that still leaves the mess of their civilian identities to handle - cover stories to come up with, board members to placate, the police to give statements to, and the media to handle. Normally Bruce would have dealt with such matters, but it’s been difficult just to get him to feed himself, so Alfred doubts he’ll be much help.

It’s not as though Bruce has never taken a break from the Gotham spotlight before, but it _is_ unusual for him to go so long without making an appearance and people are beginning to speculate. The fact that Dick and Jason are also missing has piqued the interest of the media and stories of a young boy whom Superman had brought to a hospital in Ethiopia - naked and bloodied - are starting to circulate around the internet. 

There’s even a low-quality photograph of Jason lying limp in Superman’s arms, the superhero’s cape wrapped around his otherwise bare form. Just thinking about it makes Alfred feel queasy. The first time, Alfred had slammed his laptop shut before he’d even got a proper look at it. It had seemed so _wrong_ looking at a picture of Jason so vulnerable, taken without his knowledge or consent. And his injuries, fresh and mostly uncovered, had turned Alfred’s stomach so violently that he had almost been sick. With the quality of the photograph, it’s almost impossible to make out Jason’s face, but people are starting to connect the two events.

They’ll have to give a statement soon to both the media and the police, although Alfred still hasn’t figured out quite how to explain it. Sticking as close to the truth as they’re able is usually the best strategy, but Alfred wants to expose Jason to the media speculation as little as possible. The moment they announce that Jason was attacked, it will be open season for every reporter in Gotham to make a story out Jason’s suffering - and mentioning the Joker is out of the question.

Still, people are going to find out the truth - or as close to it as they’re able - and they need to be ahead of it as best they can. So...an aid expedition would explain why Bruce and Jason were in Ethiopia in the first place, and would certainly fit with the philanthropic, Gotham sweetheart image Bruce portrays. And Sheila had been involved with an aid agency when Jason had found her, even if she had been embezzling them. Then: kidnappers maybe? It certainly wouldn’t surprise anyone in Gotham. Bruce Wayne is a rich and powerful man and kidnapping attempts on both him and his children are a dime a dozen - as much as Alfred hates that this is the case. A kidnapping gone wrong could easily explain Jason’s injuries.

Alfred needs to talk to Jason, ideally, to get their stories straight before the Ethiopian police decide that Jason is healed enough to give a proper statement. But he’s hesitant to bring it up when Jason so clearly doesn’t want to discuss what happened to him. The last thing Alfred wants is to hurt Jason in any way.

So he brings it to Bruce first. He has to wait for one of the rare moments that Bruce isn’t at Jason’s side, whilst he’s scavenging for food from the hospital vending machines. Back in Jason’s hospital room, Alfred knows that Dick is reading to him to pass the time. They won’t notice if Bruce is gone for a little longer than expected.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred calls as the man bends over to retrieve the packet of chips he’s just bought. Bruce twitches in surprise at the sound of his voice before straightening up. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

The expression on Bruce’s face is guarded and Alfred won’t pretend that that doesn’t hurt a little. “Sure Alfred. What is it?”

It’s not a conversation that Alfred particularly wants to have standing in the hospital corridor, but there’s not much chance of getting Bruce back to the hotel and, unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers.

“I think we need to discuss what Master Jason is going to tell the police.” A pause whilst Bruce digests that, his dark brows pulled into a frown. “And the media.”

Bruce rubs a hand over his face. When he drops it, Alfred is honestly surprised by how haggard he looks. “The media?”

“I’m afraid they have been speculating on your disappearance, Master Bruce.”

The picture is not something he particularly wants to show Bruce. Even if Bruce had seen all those gory injuries in person, the thought of showing him an image of his son so hurt and vulnerable still sticks in Alfred’s throat. But Bruce needs to be aware of it - and the media speculation surrounding the picture. So Alfred brings up the news article he had downloaded onto his phone earlier at the hotel and passes it to Bruce without comment.

It’s from one of the less reputable news outlets that covers Gotham. The image has pride of place in all its blurry glory and above that the headline screams: _Son of billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne injured in Ethiopia?_.

Bruce takes the phone wordlessly, studying it with a look of intense concentration. It’s hard to read his face, but Alfred can see the skin around his eyes tighten, his mouth flatten into a thin black line. His throat works soundlessly.

“What the hell is this?” He croaks, finally. The phone trembles in his hand. Alfred reaches out and carefully removes it from his grip, secreting the phone back into his pocket where they can no longer see the image. Bruce stares blankly at his open palm, as if surprised that it’s gone.

“They can’t technically connect it to Master Jason, but I think we should be ahead of them on this. You need to release a statement. And Master Jason will have to speak to the police either way.”

Bruce scrubs his hand over his face again but Alfred can tell that he agrees. Bruce is pragmatic like that.

Jason doesn’t. When he tentatively broaches the topic, Jason is prickly and uncooperative, just as Alfred had expected him to be.

“I don’t want to talk to the police,” he grumbles, sinking into the pillows as much as he can. “They can’t do anything, anyway. What’s the point?”

“I’m afraid they will have to take a statement, Master Jason, whether it will help or not. Unfortunately, the Waynes are too high profile for this to slip under the radar.”

Jason’s face twists at that, into something that might be contempt if he didn’t look so sick with it. The swelling is gradually receding but the bruises have faded into ugly greens and yellows that make Jason look permanently queasy.

“You don’t have to go into any detail, Jay,” Bruce offers. He’s sitting opposite Alfred, Jason lying between them, Dick sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, the book he had been reading lying open in his lap.

“You would only need to tell them the cover story.”

Jason sets his jaw, his lip jutting out petulantly. There’s something about the expression that makes Alfred think it’s more than just not wanting to talk to the police.

“But I don’t want to,” Jason whines, sounding younger than fifteen.

Fear, Alfred realises. Jason is afraid.

“Alright,” Alfred says, easily. “We will figure something out.”

There’s a tangible easing of tension at that. Jason’s face smooths out, although there’s still a tightness around his good eye that makes Alfred think he isn’t entirely happy.

Dick, always willing to break an awkward silence or tense moment, smiles, lifting the book from his lap and waving it in the air with one hand. “With that settled, can I get back to reading our book, please? It’s a good bit.”

Alfred leaves them to it.

⁂

Jason wakes up screaming.

It startles Alfred. Shoots little electric frissons of shock through his veins. He visibly jumps, but he doesn’t even have the capacity to feel embarrassed about it. No one else notices, any way. Bruce is already leaning across the boy, reaching to shake him out of the nightmare, or maybe hold him down as Jason jerks, thrashing against the sheets. On the bed, Dick shoots upright from where he’s been curled around Jason’s feet, but he doesn’t reach for him, his hands fluttering uselessly in the air.

“Jay,” Bruce gasps and his hand closes over Jason’s less damaged shoulder. “Wake up sweetheart, you’re OK. You’re safe now.”

Jason doesn’t seem to hear him. The scream - already thin and strangled - has tapered into an awful, low moan. His eyes are open, but they’re glazed, staring blankly up at the ceiling even though Bruce is still trying desperately to get his attention.

“Don’t,” Jason chokes. His arm jerks, as if he wants to push Bruce away and he lets out a high noise of pain when the movement jars his broken bones.

The sound seems to spear right through Alfred. He’s never heard Jason like that - not even when he’s badly injured, not even through all the nightmares his childhood had left him with. Dick grabs for him then, automatically, but Jason flinches and Dick’s hand falls short.

“Please don’t,” Jason whimpers. His eyes squeeze shut and a tear trickles out from the corner and streaks over his temple. “Stop, please. It hurts.”

The air feels suddenly too thick to breathe. Alfred stands, although he doesn’t quite know why, and Bruce glances up at him, desperately, before leaning back over his son.

“It’s OK, Jason. He isn’t here. No one’s hurting you, you’re safe. Come on. Come back, Jason.”

Jason whimpers in response. A shudder trembles through him, wracking his damaged body and Bruce has half a second to turn Jason onto his side before the boy throws up all over the floor.

It’s mostly bile but it splatters across the linoleum, catches the side of the bed and Bruce’s shoes and shins. Jason gasps, an awful, ragged sound, before he spasms again, weakly, bringing up another string of stomach acid. Bruce holds him through it, one hand carefully supporting him, the other rubbing up and down Jason’s back.

By the time Jason finally finishes emptying the meagre contents of his stomach, he’s trembling so hard that Alfred is almost worried that he’s going to injure himself again, or pitch himself right off the bed. Bruce lowers him gently back to the mattress, his arm still half-wrapped around him, and Jason sinks back easily enough. When Bruce moves to pull away, though, Jason whines and Bruce freezes, a pained expression caught on his face.

It’s so rare to see Jason so needy. Even sick, Jason rarely wants to be cuddled or fawned-over. Something in Alfred’s chest _aches_ at such an obvious display of vulnerability.

Alfred can’t stop himself from stepping forward and gently wiping a handkerchief across Jason’s mouth, smoothing his other hand over his forehead the way he would any other time the lad was sick. Jason leans into the touch, making a soft sound at the back of his throat. Another tear trickles over Jason’s swollen cheek. Alfred catches it with the handkerchief, brushing it away as if it had never existed.

“‘M sorry,” Jason whispers, turning his head against Bruce’s arm. Then, so softly that Alfred almost doesn’t hear him: “Dad…”

His chest hitches and then he’s crying properly, no longer silent tears tracking their lonesome way across his face. The sobs are loud, wet, ragged things that seem to shake his whole body.

Bruce shoots Alfred an agonised look over Jason’s head. Then he shifts, moving to sit himself on the bed, hefting Jason into his arms until the boy is settled mostly on his lap. It’s obviously awkward - Jason is small for his age, and still young, but fifteen is still big to be sitting in anybody’s lap, and Jason’s injuries make the positioning difficult. But eventually Bruce manages to cradle him close against his chest without putting too much strain on either of them.

“I’m here, son,” Bruce murmurs, pressing his lips against Jason’s curls. Jason turns his face against Bruce’s neck, those hiccuping sobs still bubbling out of his throat.

Suddenly, Alfred feels a little like an unwanted voyeur, intruding on an intimate moment not meant for him. Dick must have a similar realisation, because he scrambles off of the bed, stumbling to stand beside Alfred. An arm bumps against Alfred’s shoulder - giving and seeking reassurance in one light touch. Alfred returns the gentle pressure.

“We’ll be just outside,” he tells Bruce. It’s difficult to tell whether Jason is even aware of them but Bruce lifts his head enough to give him a stilted nod.

Dick follows Alfred out into the hallway and shuts the door behind them with a soft click. In the quiet outside, Alfred finally allows himself to close his eyes and take a breath. Seeing Jason like that is...hard. Harder than Alfred might be able to handle. And yet, it isn’t as though any of them have a choice.

“Jesus,” Dick whispers, from beside him. He rubs one hand across his face, pressing his palm against his eyes. Alfred lays a hand across his shoulder and Dick leans into the touch with a soft hum. “That was...fuck.”

The _language_ is on the tip of Alfred’s tongue - so oft used that it’s almost instinctive. Alfred lets it die. Let’s it wither to nothing but ash in his mouth. Now is hardly the time for such meaningless concerns.

Alfred isn’t stupid. Contrary to some popular belief, he does have a brain in his head that he devotes to things besides chores and he knows Bruce better than almost anyone else - better than any simple butler would. He knows that there’s something Bruce is hiding from him - Dick too for that matter. It’s clear as day in everything they do: the strangely furtive looks, the tightness of Bruce’s face, Dick’s eyes. It’s obvious in the way that Jason behaves: the way he flinches from even friendly touches, in his fear and anger.

And speaking of anger - Alfred has never seen Bruce like this, even after Dick was beaten nearly to death by Harvey Dent, even after Dick - his son, his first child - was shot by the Joker. Bruce had been angry, of course, furious and frightened and hurt. But it hadn’t been like _this_.

_The Joker is dead_ , he had said, when Alfred had asked. And his voice had been colder than Alfred has ever heard it, glass-flat, and Alfred had struggled to find purchase in the words.

Something has happened that Alfred doesn’t understand.

And he isn’t sure he wants to understand. It’s easy to speculate. It’s easy to guess at exactly what would cause Bruce and Dick and Jason to act like this. But Alfred will admit that he is weak. He has never had that same quiet strength as Bruce, the easy, stubborn will of Dick. Alfred has made a life out of bowing and bending and capitulating. He doesn’t want to guess. He doesn’t want to _know_.

Dick’s shoulder shakes beneath Alfred’s hand, and Alfred is surprised to realise that he’s crying.

“Master Jason will recover,” he says, a little helplessly. “This will all be behind us soon.”

When Dick looks up, his eyes are red and shiny with tears. “I hope so,” he murmurs. “But I don’t see how.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Dad,” Jason murmurs, barely audible through his tears. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

The word feels like a knife, twisting in Bruce’s chest. Despite the adoption, despite Bruce thinking of Jason as his son, the kid has never really called him that before. Not without a teasing lilt to the words that lets Bruce know that he’s joking. Hearing it now, small and vulnerable and _honest_ hurts. It hurts to know that it’s _this_ that has finally prompted such closeness from Jason.

“I’m here son,” Bruce repeats, a little helplessly, shifting underneath Jason, tightening his arms to hold his son closer. 

Jason is breathing too quickly, his chest shifting rapidly in Bruce’s grip, and he’s still crying, horrible, heaving sobs that hurt Bruce to hear. The smell of vomit is heavy in the air, sour and sickly sweet. Bruce can feel his own gorge rising at the back of his throat in response - to the smell and the horror.

Bruce can only guess what sort of nightmare Jason had woken from. Not that he wants to - he doesn’t want to think about the Joker haunting his son’s dreams or the horror his child must be reliving or exactly what had triggered a panic attack so bad that Jason can barely breathe. 

And yet, he can’t seem to help it. The thoughts come to him unbidden, unwanted, but irrepressible. Whenever he looks at his son, he can’t stop seeing the Joker crouching over him. Every bruise, stark and evil against Jason’s skin, conjures the image of black finger-marks staining his hips, of the Joker’s gloved hands pressing into his child’s flesh as he tore Jason apart. The hickeys that had been so livid against his throat have faded now, but Bruce can still see the imprint of them whenever Jason turns his head, or when his throat works as he swallows. When he closes his eyes, Bruce can see the fluid on the back of Jason’s thighs - too thick to just be blood, too pink.

It’s horrific. It’s the last thing Bruce wants. But as much as he might wish to, he can’t change it. He can’t make it so that it never happened.

He swallows hard against the thought. Smooths a hand through Jason’s sweaty curls. Then presses it against his son’s chest, breathing deeply in example as Jason shudders through his panic attack.

“It’s OK, kiddo. Just breathe for me. That’s it, just breathe.”

Jason tries, his chest hitching under Bruce’s palm. He whimpers. Then, small and cracked: “Can’t - I - I can’t.”

“Yes you can. Come on, in-out-in-out. There you go.”

It takes a long time for Jason to calm down. Too long. For what feels like hours, Bruce just breathes with him whilst Jason gasps and sobs and shudders. Until, finally, Jason’s breathing starts to even out and his sobs turn into little sniffles and his whole body goes limp against Bruce.

Bruce rocks him gently. “You’re OK,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of his son’s head. “You’re safe now, Jay.”

Jason sighs. Then he presses his face harder against Bruce’s neck. His cheeks are damp with leftover tears, but he’s stopped crying now, Bruce thinks. The release seems to have tipped him back into exhaustion and he flops bonelessly against Bruce’s chest.

Bruce’s throat is so tight it feels hard to breathe. “You’re OK,” he says again, although he isn’t even sure if that’s true. Then, hesitantly: “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jason’s head twitches. Then he shifts, as if he wants to pull away and Bruce should let him but he can’t seem to make his arms loosen.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jason snaps, but he stops moving, sinking back into Bruce despite the sharp words.

Bruce feels strangely wrong-footed. Whiplashed by Jason’s rapidly changing mood. “Jason…”

“No.” The word is pressed against Bruce’s neck, wet against his skin. “No - I - I just want it to stop. Make it stop.”

The last bit is whispered so quietly that Bruce feels it rather than hears it - mouthed against his skin. He has to close his eyes and just breathe for a second to get control of himself. It’s everything he wishes he could do for Jason - wipe it away, erase it from his memory, from _existence_. But he can’t. And he can’t escape the fact that if he had gotten there sooner, if he had been a better Batman, a better _father_ , he wouldn’t have to.

He had allowed this. Every time he had let the Joker live, every time he had thrown that monster into Arkham, knowing that this wouldn’t be the last time he escaped, the last time he hurt someone, he had risked this. And for what? His own pointless moral code? His own satisfaction? So many people had been hurt by him: Barbara Gordon, Dick, thousands of innocent, blameless people. And Bruce had allowed it. 

It was the Joker that did this to Jason, but it was Bruce that had let him.

“I can’t, chum,” Bruce murmurs and it hurts him to say it. If he could, he would, without a second thought, but this isn’t something that he can do, even for Jason. “I’m so sorry. I can’t make it stop. Not just like that.”

Jason _whines_. The sound reverberates right through Bruce’s chest, makes his heart throb, a sick, throaty pulse. His child shouldn’t sound like that. There's nothing about this that sits right with Bruce.

“You’re safe now, though, Jason. He can’t hurt you any more.” Bruce swallows around the hard lump in his throat. He clutches Jason a little tighter and the kid doesn’t protest. “And this will pass. It won’t always hurt like this.”

“How do you know?” Jason whispers.

Bruce doesn’t know. Not really. This is so far outside of the realm of what he knows that he feels a little like he’s drowning. But he doesn’t know what else to tell Jason. He doesn’t know how to make this better.

“You’re so strong, Jason. You survived. And you can get through this. I know you can.” Bruce can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to Jason’s head. Hot tears prickle at the back of his eyes and his cheeks feel flushed, too warm. When he speaks again, his voice is thick. “I’m so proud of you, son.”

Jason is quiet for a long time then. So long that Bruce starts to think he might have fallen asleep, despite the occasional wet hitch of his breath. Bruce’s legs feel a little numb, but he doesn’t dare shift for fear of waking Jason - or worse, hurting him.

Then, in a small voice: “So you’re not mad?”

It takes Bruce a moment to process the question. When he does, it feels as though ice has frozen the blood in his veins. He feels strangely light headed suddenly, as if only the weight of Jason in his arms is keeping him from floating away. It takes him another moment to collect himself enough to actually answer.

“Of course not,” he manages, around the sudden constriction of his throat. “Not at you. Never at you, Jason.”

Jason makes an odd little dissenting noise.

“I mean it,” Bruce says, jostling Jason in his lap in emphasis. “I _am_ angry. I’m angry that you were hurt. I’m _furious_ with the Joker for hurting you. And I’m angry at myself for not making it in time to stop him. But I’m not angry at you, Jay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, I did.” And Jason’s voice is small and thick. “I disobeyed you and I snuck out on Alfred and I went to see Sheila even though I shouldn’t have and -“

“OK,” Bruce interrupts, because he doesn’t think he can sit here and listen to Jason list all the things he blames himself for without going crazy. “OK, you made some bad decisions and I won’t say I’m happy about that. But you’re _fifteen,_ Jason. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“That’s not what you normally say,” Jason teases. And Bruce is so pleased to hear it that he almost laughs.

“Well it’s true. And listen, I’m not angry at you for what happened, Jay. I definitely don’t blame you, OK? You didn’t - you didn’t deserve that.” 

Jason is quiet after that. Bruce nuzzles into his hair and rocks him gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Jason mumbles, but Bruce thinks he might be crying again. It’s quiet - silent tears and the occasional wet breath, but Bruce can feel his shoulders shaking.

Bruce rubs his palm across Jason’s chest. Feels it rise and fall with every breath and is so, _so_ grateful that he still can, even with everything that has happened. Jason is alive. That’s the most important things. More important than anything.

⁂

Slowly but surely, Jason starts to get better. The awful bruises fade to almost nothing. He’s awake for longer and he’s more aware during those moments, more alert, more like himself. His bones are slowly healing, although it will be a long time before many of them are totally fixed - maybe never in the case of his hand and hip.

It’s everything Bruce had hoped for, but it’s difficult in so many ways too. An aware Jason is a contrary one and he fights Bruce and the nurses on almost everything now: the food he’s given, his dressing changes, his painkillers. Bruce knows that it comes from his fear - a need to control the environment around him when he’s been forced to be so out of control and a case of serious PTSD that means Jason doesn’t want to be touched or fussed over by strangers.

That only makes Jason’s rebellion hurt worse. It hurts to know how frightened he is. It hurts to know where his anger is coming from. And Bruce can’t blame him for it. _Bruce_ doesn’t want anyone to touch Jason. Watching strangers put their hands on his son when he’s so vulnerable is it’s own special kind of hell, even if he knows they only mean well. 

Some moments are worse than others: the first time a nurse suggests giving Jason a bed bath and the kid freaks out so badly that Bruce has to restrain him; the moment the doctors had told him he might never regain full movement of his hand, or full mobility of his leg; the first physical therapy session for his hip. 

The PT had been achingly careful with Jason, taking him through exactly what she was going to do and why, warning him before she touched him. Jason had listened in sullen silence, but he had agreed when the therapist had asked to put her hands on him. Then, when she had carefully gripped the top of his thigh, Jason’s whole body, already tense with anxiety, had gone rigid.

The therapist had pulled away immediately, smooth and controlled to avoid startling Jason more, but it was too late - Jason had already launched into a panic attack. 

Now Bruce performs what he can of Jason’s physical therapy exercises, under careful supervision.

“When are we going home?” Jason asks, as Bruce gently manipulates his leg. It’s the same question he’s asked almost every day since he started feeling more aware of his surroundings and exactly how long he’s been bedridden at the hospital. Bruce never has a satisfactory answer for him, but it doesn’t stop him asking.

“As soon as you’re well enough to travel,” Bruce tells him, as he has every other time.

“I’m well enough to travel now,” Jason complains, his voice a familiar whine.

“No. You aren’t.”

Bruce understands his frustration - of course he does. _He_ wants Jason home almost as badly as Jason wants to be home, and he’s hardly the best example of patiently healing himself. It’s boring to be stuck in bed, especially without the comforts of home, and Bruce and Dick and Alfred try their best but there’s only so much being read to and word games a kid can reasonably be expected to take.

It’s worse now that Dick has had to head back to the Titans. As much as Bruce tries, he can’t manage the easy entertainment that Dick puts on. Bruce is aware, mostly, of his faults. Emotional constipation is one of them - certainly according to Dick, at least. Now Bruce and Jason tend to sit in brooding silence, every topic of conversation either too painful or already exhausted.

But the last thing Bruce wants is to stress Jason’s slowly-healing injuries with a long haul flight across the world. When it was just Bruce and Jason in the room, Jason had suggested, in a hopeful whisper, that Superman could fly him home in a matter of minutes. It wasn’t the first time the idea had occurred to Bruce himself, but the media attention Jason has already garnered makes it hard to justify doing anything that people might notice.

Besides, Bruce will admit that he’s hesitant to have to take the responsibility of Jason’s healing on himself. Normally, Bruce is happy to entrust his sons to Alfred’s care - or Doctor Leslie’s in particularly severe cases - but Jason was so _hurt_ and the thought of taking him out of the hospital leaves a strange, sour taste in his mouth.

Luckily, Jason rarely pushes the issue. But he has definitely been getting more and more antsy as time goes on. Bruce knows that soon he won’t be able to placate Jason but there also isn’t much he really can do when Jason hasn’t been cleared to travel.

“This is bullshit,” Jason growls, before cutting himself off with a wince as Bruce rotates his leg in a small circle.

This is the part Bruce likes the least about the therapy - hurting Jason, watching his face crease with pain or hearing the strained hiss that usually accompanies his ministrations. He knows it’s for the best - and so does Jason - but that doesn’t stop the instinctive, animal part of his brain from screaming at him to stop hurting his child, to make it so that Jason never has to pull that pained expression again.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce murmurs, although he doesn’t stop the exercise, as much as he wants to.

The physical therapist, standing unobtrusively against the wall at the side of the room steps forward to check Bruce’s technique. Jason tenses as she approaches, although he keeps his face carefully neutral. He’s good at hiding the fear. Bruce helped teach him that. It’s not a pleasant thought.

“That’s good, Bruce,” the PT says gently. “Try to widen the circles a little more.” Then, turning to Jason: “How are you feeling Jason? If it’s too painful, let us know. We don’t want to accidentally cause more damage.”

“I’m fine,” Jason snaps. Bruce circles his leg a little wider and this time Jason doesn’t flinch, although Bruce can see him breathing deeply in one of the pain management exercises Batman had taught him.

Suddenly Bruce is struck by the image of Jason doing the same on a bloodied concrete floor. Of Jason breathing exactly the way Bruce had taught him as the Joker had torn him apart - first with the crowbar and then after that. Of Jason trying to minimise his agony in any small way he can. Had he imagined Bruce’s voice, walking him through the steps as the Joker had tortured and raped him? Or had he been too far gone for rational thinking by then?

Bruce has to stop and concentrate on his own breathing, then, to keep from puking. Jason watches him, his blue eyes dark from beneath furrowed brows, as Bruce gently lays his leg against the mattress and tries to subtly brace himself on the side of the bed.

“B?” Jason asks, softly but with an edge of concern. “Everything OK?”

Bruce tries to tell him that it’s fine, but his tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. His throat feels thick and sticky and it’s making it hard to breathe.

“Bruce?” Jason asks again, more urgently. And Bruce can’t help but imagine Jason calling his name like that, small and terrified, begging him for help. How long had he held onto the hope that Bruce would save him? All the way to the bitter end? Or maybe he had given up any belief that Bruce would come for him the moment the Joker had touched him.

Jason hasn’t talked to Bruce about it since the time he’d had the panic-attack-inducing nightmare - and Bruce is pretty certain that he hasn’t spoken to anyone else either. It’s not a surprise, exactly, that Jason would rather pretend it hadn’t happened. He’s a fifteen year old boy after all, and as much as Bruce might tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he doesn’t have to be ashamed of anything that happened, he knows that Jason might not feel that way. Even if he does, talking about it, dredging up those memories, must be painful, and Jason has been through enough pain already.

For the most part, Bruce has been trying to pretend it didn’t happen either. It’s easier, in so many ways, to not have to acknowledge the fact that Bruce’s _son_ has been _raped_ and all of the awful, terrible baggage and emotions that come with that. Bruce does a decent job of not thinking about it, of forcing away the terrible images that flash across his mind at any moment.

But there are times when Bruce can’t stop himself. Times when he goes over and over it again in his head - all the things he did wrong, all the things he could have done differently. Times when he can’t see past how badly he’s failed Jason - a father who can’t even protect his son. Times when he has nightmares so vivid that he could almost be there, watching the Joker violate his son, hearing Jason call out for Bruce, for his _dad_ , running as though his feet are trapped on some invisible treadmill, never quite reaching him in time.

God knows what sort of nightmares Jason is having. Bruce should talk to him - Jason might be pretending it didn’t happen but Bruce shouldn’t. He doesn’t know how, though. Bruce has all the emotional delicacy of a sledgehammer and he doesn’t want to cause any damage he can’t fix. How can he broach a topic as fraught with painful potholes as this? How can he comfort his son when he’s struggling so badly himself? How can he empathise when he has no idea what his son is really going through?

“Dad?”

Bruce startles back to awareness. Jason’s face is creased with real concern now and the therapist is hovering at Bruce’s side, her hand inches away from Bruce’s arm, as if she wants to touch him but is afraid of his reaction. Bruce shakes himself, trying to dispel the strange dissociation and the tightness of his throat. He swallows against the bile pooling in his mouth. It seems so selfish to need their concern.

“Yeah?” He manages, finally unsticking the word from his tongue.

Jason gives him a calculating look. “I asked if you were OK.”

Bruce could almost laugh if the situation were a little different. It’s something Bruce has asked Jason so many times that the kid must be sick of it. It feels strange and not entirely pleasant to be on the receiving end of the question.

“I’m fine,” Bruce says, trying to inject a little life into his voice as he does. He pats Jason’s leg gently, aware of the damage beneath white bandages. “I think that’s enough for today.”

It’s not really his call to make, but the physical therapist just nods and starts to bustle around, collecting her things. Bruce stands stiffly beside Jason’s bed, aware of his son’s gaze heavy against the side of his face. Bruce can’t bring himself to look at him. Pathetic. Bruce is so goddamn pathetic.

“You did very well today, Jason,” the PT says into the silence.

Bruce nods dumbly in agreement. Jason’s face does something complicated that Bruce can’t read and he’s quiet for long enough that Bruce thinks he might not say anything in return. The therapist must think so too, because she offers a final smile and pushes the door open.

Then, just before she disappears: “Thank you,” Jason says, voice small.

She smiles again and then it’s just Bruce and Jason alone in the room. It shouldn’t be awkward and yet, it is. Bruce hates it. Hates the fact that he doesn’t know how to talk to his son anymore.

“What’s going on, old man?” Jason asks, when the silence stretches too thin to bear. “What was that?”

Bruce shrugs, uncomfortable and feeling foolish for his overreaction. “What was what?”

The concern on Jason’s face morphs into a scowl. “So you’re allowed to be like that, but I’m not?”

He’s right. It isn’t fair for Bruce to be evasive about his feelings when he expects Jason to be open with his. But it’s different. Bruce is the parent - Jason shouldn’t have to deal with the burden of knowing that Bruce is scared, that Bruce is hurting, on top of everything else.

Instead of answering, Bruce carefully pulls the sheet back over Jason’s legs, tucks it in around his chest and smooths the wrinkles flat. Jason lets him, although the scowl stays firmly on his face. It’s the same thing Alfred does, when he’s here: fussing compulsively with the sheets, smoothing and tucking, as if that will somehow minimise Jason’s pain. Or maybe it’s a self-soothing gesture for Alfred, a way to keep busy when he feels at a loss for what to do. It certainly makes Bruce feel a little better, to have something to do with his hands.

“I...don’t like seeing you hurt,” Bruce says finally, once the sheets are smoothed to his satisfaction. It’s honest enough. It’s vulnerable enough.

Jason snorts. “C’mon, B. I’ve been hurt a hundred times. This isn’t anything special.”

Bruce’s tongue re-sticks itself to the top of his mouth. There’s something a little desperate to the words. Something pleading.

“Besides, it’s like you said - it won’t hurt forever. I’ll be healed up real soon.”

That isn’t what Bruce had been talking about when they’d had that conversation and Jason knows that. It hadn’t been a physical hurt that Bruce had meant then. But trust Jason to repurpose his words to suit his own agenda. And what is Bruce supposed to say anyway? _I didn’t mean your broken bones when I said that, Jason. I was talking about your rape._

Because that would go down like a lead balloon. And besides, shouldn’t Bruce be waiting for Jason to come to him? Shouldn’t it be Jason’s choice, whether he wants to talk about that particular trauma or not? Bruce doesn’t want to back him into a corner. He doesn’t want to make this about his own feelings.

“Right,” Bruce says, with a stiff smile. “Of course you will. That doesn’t mean I like seeing you hurting in the meantime.”

Jason gives him an odd look. There’s something shadowed in his expression - something like the pleading note in his voice.

“Well physio is supposed to hurt. That means it’s doing something. I’m getting better.”

“I know,” Bruce says, because it’s what Jason wants to hear.

⁂

“What happened to Sheila?”

Bruce startles, glancing up from the book he was in the middle of reading aloud. Jason is getting better everyday - almost well enough to come home - and his arm is healed enough that he can hold books one handed and read himself, even if his other hand still isn’t dexterous enough to turn the pages. But he still likes Bruce to read to him, when he can.

It’s a little surprising that it’s taken him this long to ask, actually. Bruce had been prepared for the question a long time ago, but perhaps acknowledging Sheila is too close to acknowledging everything else for Jason.

“She’s alive,” is what Bruce starts with, because it’s the easiest and most important thing to say. “I took her to a different hospital, whilst Superman was bringing you here.”

Jason nods. Bruce gently closes the book in his lap. He wants to give this his full attention.

“She’s been discharged now, into police custody. No permanent injuries.” 

“She was arrested?”

“Well, she has some pretty serious embezzlement charges against her.” Then, because he can’t seem to help himself: “Jason she...she told me what happened.”

Jason tenses. His face twists into something like a snarl. “Yeah? She tell you how she sold me out?”

“She did,” Bruce says, gently. Sheila had apologised over and over again for it, sobbing, clutching at Batman’s arm with claw-like fingers as he had half-carried her over the sand. It hadn’t made Bruce feel particularly sympathetic. “I’m so sorry she did that, Jason. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jason’s shoulder twitches in a jerky half-shrug. “I was - I was trying to help her. She...I thought I could help…”

It makes Bruce’s chest hurt, that his son had been so _good_ , so kind, and all he had gotten in return was the worst kind of betrayal.

“She didn’t fucking want my help,” Jason says, with a bitter little laugh. “She wanted me out of the way. She wanted the Joker to get rid of me. She just stood there while he...while he hit me with the crowbar. She was smoking.”

Anger burns hot at the base of Bruce’s throat, a sick, choking fury. How could anyone stand aside as a child was hurt? _Their_ child. How could she be so callous? So cruel?

Jason swallows. Hesitates. As if he is searching for the right words, or maybe just struggling to get them out.

“When he -“ He stops. Shuts his eyes. A fine tremour shivers over his skin. Bruce has the urge to reach out and touch him, but he isn’t sure how Jason will react. “She tried to stop him when he - when he started...undressing me. That’s why he tied her up.”

Bruce has to shut his eyes against the image that conjures up - of the Joker tearing his son’s uniform off of him. When he opens them again, Jason is looking straight at him, his eyes bright and marble hard.

“She was gonna let him kill me but _that_ was too much for her.” He snorts. It’s a wet sound of derision. “What a fucking joke.”

Despite everything, Bruce finds himself sympathising with Sheila. He can’t imagine the horror of watching any child - let alone your own - be raped in front of you. Just knowing it had happened is bad enough. Just seeing the aftermath is the worst thing to have happened to Bruce. But there’s only so much sympathy he can dredge up, considering she was the one who had given Jason to the Joker in the first place.

Jason sniffles and Bruce gives in to the urge to reach out and gently cup his son’s cheek. Jason tilts his face into Bruce’s palm.

“She’s supposed to be my mom,” Jason whispers, voice so quiet that Bruce almost doesn’t hear him. His eyelashes flutter. “Why would she do that? I was trying to help her.”

“I don’t know, Jason,” Bruce murmurs, helplessly, rubbing his thumb over his son’s cheek. “People do terrible things when they’re desperate. That doesn’t make it right, but you should know it’s not your fault Jason. She chose to let you get hurt because she knew she was in trouble, not because you did anything wrong.”

Jason sniffs again but says nothing in return. It’s impossible to tell if he believes Bruce.

“I’m so sorry, chum.”

For all the good that does.


	6. Chapter 6

It feels strange to be alone in the manor. After so long away from it, Dick feels like an intruder in somebody else’s home - no longer welcome or wanted. The long, echoing hallways, the endless empty rooms, they feel different now Dick knows he’s the only one there - no Bruce, working away in the Batcave, no Alfred bustling in the kitchen. There’s a staleness to the air that Alfred would normally never allow, except that Alfred hasn’t been back to the manor in weeks.

It feels as though the whole house is waiting.

Dick had been pleased to see that Bruce hadn’t changed the locks. He was pleased too, to have not given in to his petty desire to toss his key in the harbour after he had stormed out of the house, furious and vindictive after his argument with Bruce. Dick could have broken in, of course, but the manor’s security outstrips even Dick’s most equipped safe house, and it’s always easier to go in the front door.

Maybe Dick should open some windows? But the air is starting to turn chill and damp with the start of fall and Dick isn’t sure if it would make much of a difference anyway, in the grand scheme of things. He could cook something maybe? By the time Bruce and Alfred and Jason arrive, it will be close to dinner time and the smell of food might help combat the heavy stillness of the air. But Dick’s never been good at cooking and he isn’t sure if there’s actually any food in the house that’s still edible after such a long absence.

So, in the end Dick just paces up and down the entrance hall, his phone surgically attached to his hand, compulsively checking for a message every ten seconds, as if he might have missed the notification.

It feels strange to be the only one to greet them. It feels as though there should be a welcome party, or something. But even Dick knows that Jason would hate that and it doesn’t seem like the kid really has many friends anyway. It wouldn’t be much of a party if only Dick and Barbara showed up. Perhaps it’s better that only Dick is here. Low-fuss. No big deal.

Dick’s phone buzzes. _Landed_ , flashes up on the screen - a single word message because it’s Bruce, so of course it is. Dick sends a thumbs-up emoji back. It’s maybe twenty minutes from the airport. Dick feels restless enough to crawl right out of his skin but at least there’s no one here to tell him to stop wearing a hole in the floor. He checks his phone again. It’s barely been a minute.

Dick groans. He needs to find something to occupy himself with or he’s going to combust.

It seems like an eternity before the door finally opens. Dick hears the doorknob turn and scrambles upright from where he’s been doing a handstand against the far wall. His heart is thumping in his chest, a thrumming pulse in his throat. It feels like forever since he last saw Jason and he knows the kid should be a hundred times better now, but he can’t shake the image of him in that hospital bed, when his bruises had been fresh and dark and he’d been wrapped in so many bandages he hardly looked human.

Dick hadn’t exactly wanted to go back to the Titans but he’d had to. As much as he’d wanted to stay with Jason until he was well enough to leave, Dick couldn’t justify such an extended leave from his team. Besides, Jason had Bruce and Alfred there. And they’d hardly hung out before all of this happened, anyway. It’s not as though Jason will have missed him.

When he had gotten back, his team had been buzzing with questions. He’d been gone longer than expected and he’d left abruptly enough to worry them. It wasn’t a surprise that they had wanted to know, but Dick hadn’t wanted to think about it. He hadn’t wanted to explain how badly the Joker had injured his little brother, he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how close to losing him they had been, how irrevocably hurt Jason was. In the end he’d given as stripped back a story as he could and left it at that and thankfully they had left it alone.

Jason hasn’t even been in the hospital that long, all things considered. He’s healed quickly. The virtue of being young, Dick supposes. Still, it feels like it could have been years.

Alfred enters first and he offers Dick a tired smile before turning to hold the door open wide enough for Jason to hobble through. The kid can walk OK, mostly, with crutches to help take the weight off his hip, but after such a long flight Jason must be tired and uncomfortable - even if they had taken a private jet.

Even so, Dick can see how much better Jason is the moment he steps into the entrance hall. The bruises are gone now and so is the swelling. Almost all of his bandages are gone too, although his most damaged hand is still wrapped up. He pulls a strange expression when he sees Dick, a sort of grimace that looks like Jason started to smile then decided against it.

“Little wing!” Dick says, brightly. “It’s good to have you back.” Then he ruffles Jason’s hair because he knows it will annoy him and because he wants to feel him, real, under his hand.

Jason obliges him by squawking indignantly, ducking away from Dick’s fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your welcome party, kiddo. How was the flight?”

Jason shrugs. “Long,” he says and he sounds tired.

Dick wonders whether he slept on the plane - whether any of them did. Whether he had nightmares. Behind Jason, Bruce just grunts. He looks better than when Dick had first seen him in the hospital too, but not by much. There are bruise-like shadows under his eyes, lines across his face that hadn’t been there before.

“Well, you’re back now,” Dick offers. “Home sweet home. I didn’t make anything for dinner, so maybe we can have a take-away or something?”

“Chilli dogs,” Jason says, before Dick has even properly finished his sentence.

Dick laughs. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alfred give an exaggerated wince but the look in the butler’s face is fond. 

“I wanna take a shower first, though.”

“Here,” Bruce says, moving to grip Jason’s elbow, “let me help you.”

For a moment it looks as though Jason is going to reject the offer, shake Bruce off and make his own way to the bathroom. Then he visibly relents, leaning a little of his weight against Bruce’s guiding hand.

That leaves Alfred and Dick alone in the entrance hall. The quiet is easy, as it always is with the butler, but Dick isn’t in the mood to sit in contemplation. Even this peaceable quiet seems to lay heavy and wrong in the air.

“Was it bad?” Dick asks when he can’t stand the silence anymore.

Alfred straightens a little. Dick hadn’t noticed the stoop to his shoulders, but now that he’s looking he can see how much older Alfred seems. More wrinkled. More grey.

“It could have been worse, Master Dick. His hip is doing better than expected.”

“That’s good,” Dick offers. “He seems a lot better.”

Alfred smiles softly. “Indeed he does. Now I believe we must acquire some chilli dogs, lest Master Jason starve.”

⁂

Jason eats his chilli dogs like a starving man. It’s a little disgusting, actually, with the amount of sauce he manages to smear across his face, dripping from his fingers, but Dick supposes it’s difficult to ever eat chilli dogs gracefully, even less so one-handed. No one tells him to eat more neatly. No one says anything, actually. The dining room is silent save for the wet sounds of chewing and Jason’s occasional contented hum.

Dick mostly picks at his own food, more interested in watching the pleasure on Jason’s face. Alfred is eating his chilli dog with a knife and fork and Jason finds that so funny that he almost chokes. The alarm on Bruce’s face as he thumps Jason’s back is considerably less funny.

“‘M fine,” Jason growls, shrugging Bruce’s hand away. He takes another huge mouthful, as if to prove a point and his next words are accompanied by a spray of damp crumbs. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Bruce looks torn between pained and amused. He lets his hand drop back into his lap but he doesn’t move away, hovering annoyingly at Jason’s side. The kid shoots him a look but it doesn’t seem to dissuade him.

“Seriously, B. I’m not shuffling off the mortal coil yet.”

“I know,” Bruce says, still not retreating. “Eat more slowly, please.”

It’s all achingly domestic. Dick’s chest hurts, a painful longing constricting his throat. Living with the Titans is amazing in so many ways and they’re a family to him, but he won’t deny that he misses this. With his team, he’s almost always the one in charge, the one looking out for everyone and keeping them safe. And in a lot of ways, he likes that. He likes the independence of taking care of himself. He likes the way his team trust him and look up to him.

But he won’t deny that sometimes he misses being looked after. He misses Alfred cooking for him and Bruce worrying about him and, yeah, Bruce’s concern is _stifling_ , but he wasn’t always so overbearing. There was a time when they fit together well. Dick misses that.

He swallows around a thick lump of chilli dog. He had missed out on Jason, too, he knows. They’re not exactly the brothers Dick might like to imagine they are.

“I’m done,” Jason says, eventually, having managed to get through five chilli dogs and half-way through a sixth. Dick is impressed. “I think if I eat another bite my ribs are gonna bust apart again.”

Bruce pulls a constipated expression as Jason pushes his plate away and leans back with a groan. Dick kind of wants to laugh but he kind of wants to cry too. It’s such a casual remark and Dick is used to that - to normalising the injuries, to joking around to take some of the huge weight of being _them_ off of their shoulders. But it’s still a nasty shock to hear Jason talk about it as though it’s just another close call on patrol. 

“Yeah?” And somehow Dick manages to keep his voice light despite the fact that his throat feels sealed almost shut. “You saving all that for later little wing?”

He reaches out to rub across Jason’s cheek and Jason ducks away from him with a scowl, scrubbing his own hand against the mess he’s left behind. He looks awfully young, food smeared across his face, his eyes bright with exhaustion. Dick’s chest clenches.

“Shove off _Dick_ ,” Jason grumbles but there’s no heat behind the words. Any remaining energy seems to have drained right out of him, slumped boneless in his seat.

“Bed time, I think, Master Jason,” Alfred says, as if reading Dick’s thoughts. 

Jason grumbles, but he pushes his chair back to stand unsteadily. Bruce stands with him, his hand hovering as if he’s afraid Jason might collapse.

“And make sure to wash your face first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason mumbles. But his voice is fond.

⁂

Jason wets the bed, his first night back at the manor. Dick wouldn’t have even known, except his old room is right across from Jason’s and he can’t sleep. It’s too strange to be back in his old bed, his old room, his old _home_. He’s achingly aware that it isn’t _his_ anymore. That he doesn’t quite belong here.

And he’s still full of a restless sort of energy that makes it hard to lie still and even harder to sleep. So he’s awake to hear the soft thump of Jason’s door opening and the shuffle of unsteady feet.

At first, Dick considers just staying put. It’s not exactly a surprise that Jason is up - his sleep schedule has never been normal and his stay in the hospital has almost certainly ruined any rhythm he actually has. And Dick expects nightmares. He’s sure Jason had them even before everything that happened. Of course he’ll have them now. Probably, Jason will find Bruce or Alfred or go do whatever he does on bad nights and he won’t need Dick. Dick’s never been here to comfort him before.

Except...the shuffling stops. There’s the thud of something hitting the wall and the rustle of fabric. Then Jason curses, softly but with feeling, and the word is wet with what sounds like tears.

Dick’s chest clenches. He can’t stay put after that, not when Jason sounds so upset. So he rolls out of his own bed and pads across the floor to crack his door open and peak outside.

Jason is leaning against the wall outside his room, slumped over like he doesn’t have the energy to hold himself upright. His door is still open. Something dark and shapeless is hanging off of one arm, trailing behind him. Dick can’t tell what it is at first, in the darkness. He can’t see Jason’s face either.

When he steps out into the hallway, Jason’s head comes up like a frightened rabbit and Dick gets a better look at his face, flushed and wet, his eyes wide and shiny in the dim light. The heavy stink of ammonia hits Dick the moment he gets closer and the lumpy shape resolves itself into something that looks suspiciously like bed sheets, spilling over Jason’s arm and littering the floor between him and his room.

Oh. _Oh_. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happened. Dick has wet the bed before, back when he was very little and, more embarrassingly, after his parents died and he’d moved in with Bruce and everything was new and terrifying.

He can remember the shame of those moments, waking to damp warmth and the same smell that assaults Dick now. He remembers furtively stripping his bed, carrying the tangled mess out into the hallway, then, utterly new to the house - and to laundry - not having a clue what to do with them or where to find fresh ones. Remembers crying in the hallway until Bruce had found him. Remembers his shame because at eight years old, he knew he was too old for this.

Jason is fifteen. But Jason has also experienced a trauma that most fifteen year olds never will.

“Hey,” Dick says, softly.

“Fuck off,” Jason snarls in return. He tries to block the sheets from view with his body but they’re scattered across the floor and, besides, Jason’s pyjama bottoms are wet too, dark with urine. “Go away.”

“OK. I’ll go back to bed if you want, but it looks like you could use some help.”

Jason scowls. His cheeks are so flushed that they’re practically glowing. Dick can almost feel the heat coming off of him.

“I’m not a little kid. I didn’t - I can handle it myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Jason stares. Dick can see him struggling with himself - with the embarrassment of needing help and the conflicting desire for someone to take the problem out of his hands, to soothe him and make the situation better.

“Listen,” Dick says, trying to somehow make this easier, “you don’t have to be embarrassed about it. I get it.”

“Do you?” Jason snaps and the words are dripping with venom. “Somehow I don’t think you do.”

Dick winces. That’s fair - Dick doesn’t understand, not really. Hopefully he never will. But he understands being frightened. He understands being hurt and afraid and unsure if you’ll ever really be _you_ again.

“I used to wet the bed,” Dick offers. “When I first came to live with Bruce.”

The flush on Jason’s cheeks darkens to an almost violent red. “I didn’t,” he says, even though the evidence of it is clear as day.

“OK,” Dick says, easily. But he steps forward to start picking the bed sheets up anyway. 

Jason flinches at the movement and, yeah, that hurts because the last thing Dick wants is for his little brother to be afraid of him. But he gets that Jason feels vulnerable right now, so he ignores it. Calling attention to it will only make Jason feel worse.

Jason doesn’t protest as Dick bundles up the sheets. The ammonia smell is worse than ever, this close to the source, but Dick ignores that too. 

“Why don’t you go get changed? I’ll sort these out and you can just bring me those pyjamas when you’re done.”

Jason hesitates. He bites his lip, worrying at the little scar where it had split. For a moment, Dick is sure he’s going to be told to fuck off again. Then: “Don’t tell Alfred,” Jason whispers. A pause. “Or Bruce.”

Dick’s heart twists in his chest. As if Bruce or Alfred would judge him for this. As if they’d find it anything other than devastatingly sad.

“I won’t,” Dick says, though, because he won’t if Jason doesn’t want him too and it’s important that Jason knows that. “But you don’t have anything to be ashamed of.”

Jason scoffs. It sounds wet. “I wet the bed _Dick_. Fucking babies wet the bed. Old ladies wet the bed. I shouldn’t - I _should_ be fucking ashamed.”

Then Jason starts to cry properly. It’s quiet - so quiet that Dick doesn’t think he would notice if he wasn’t standing right next to the kid. And Dick can’t just stand there, his arms full, and do nothing. So he lets the bed sheets drop and, taking a risk because everything seems a risk with Jason, he pulls the kid gently into a hug.

Jason goes easily and that’s maybe the most surprising thing about tonight.

“Hey,” Dick soothes. “It’s OK.” He hunches over a little, so he can tuck his chin over Jason’s head. The kid has always been small and even with Alfred feeding him up, he never quite hit his teenage growth spurt. The thought makes Dick feel a little ill. Because Jason looks so much like the child he is and the Joker had still raped him. Still looked at him and seen something worthy of hurt. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of, Jay. I promise.”

Then Jason is pulling away a little, not breaking the circle of Dick’s arms, but leaning back enough that he can tilt his face up towards him. And Dick isn’t entirely sure what he’s expecting Jason to do then - scowl at him maybe or tuck his face back into his neck or pull away entirely - but it certainly isn’t what Jason actually does. Because Jason leans up a little and presses their mouths together.

For a long moment - too long - Dick just stands there, frozen, with Jason’s lips against his own, his hot breath against his face. His arms are still wrapped around Jason’s back. Jason’s own hands are clutching at Dick’s shirt and Dick can feel them trembling through the thin material. He can feel Jason pressed up against him, the warmth of him against his chest, and Dick should pull away but he honestly can’t unlock his arms. His brain seems to have turned to mush in his head.

Then Jason tilts his head and his lips move as if he’s trying to deepen the kiss and Dick tastes salt and he jerks away so quickly that his head spins.

Jason blinks up at him with a dazed expression. His mouth is still open a little and Dick is still close enough to feel the puff of his breath. Then Jason’s eyes seem to clear and his whole face crumples like wet tissue paper.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps and the word hitches in a way that makes Dick think he’s about to lose any small composure he still has. “I’m sorry I - I didn’t mean to - I -“

Dick is torn between pulling away or dragging Jason back into a hug. Yeah, the kiss was inappropriate and awkward and...gross, but Dick gets why Jason did it. Why he might be confused. Why he might want affection that isn’t terrifying and painful and violating. In the end, Dick can’t stop himself from squeezing Jason a little tighter because he’s always used touch as a comfort and Jason hasn’t actually pushed him away yet.

“It’s alright Jay. Don’t apologise. I’m not angry.”

“I swear, Dick, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” Then, because apparently Dick can’t help himself: “Look, Jay, I know what happened.”

Jason does pull away then. Dick lets his arms drop back to his sides. They feel suddenly inordinately heavy, boneless and rubbery. Jason stares at him, his eyes too bright, glittering marbles in the darkness.

“No you don’t.”

Dick should stop there. He should let Jason have his privacy. Telling Jason isn’t likely to make either of them feel better - Jason will hate him for it, Dick knows, and he’ll be justified in that. But the words swell in his throat anyway, tripping over each other to incriminate him.

“Yeah, I do. I know the Joker raped you.”

The word seems too loud in the relative quiet of the hallway, too harsh. Jason actually flinches and Dick wonders whether this is the first time anyone has said the word to him. Have he and Bruce actually talked about it? Or have they danced around the issue just as Bruce always does? Was it right for Dick to confront him with it? Or should he have let Jason keep pretending it didn’t happen? Dick doesn’t know what the right thing to do is. He doesn’t know how to not fuck this up.

“Shut up,” Jason snaps. “He didn’t. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“This is a totally normal reaction, Jason. It’s not uncommon for survivors of sexual assault to-“

“Shut up!”

Dick shuts up. Jason’s chest is heaving, his face red and wet. He isn’t looking at Dick anymore, glaring at the bed sheets Dick had dumped on the floor instead. Maybe Dick shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed. What does he know, anyway? All he’s doing is reciting the same facts Jason himself probably already knows, the ones they had both learnt when Bruce had taught them how to handle victims.

On the streets, it seems so easy. Say this, do that, keep them calm until someone else comes to take the problem out of their hands. Dick never has to worry about seeing the survivors again. He doesn’t have to think about whether his words are actually worth anything. Whether he’s really helping or not.

With his little brother, Dick is painfully aware that there are a hundred things that Dick could say wrong. With Jason, Dick is aware of how little he can really help.

“Did -“ Jason swallows. Clears his throat. “Did B tell you that? That I was…”

“No.” And now it’s Dick’s turn to flush with embarrassment. What he did was a horrible invasion of privacy - one he doesn’t think Jason will appreciate. “Bruce didn’t tell me anything. I looked at your medical record. It mentioned evidence of...evidence of sexual assault.” Then, when Jason doesn’t say anything: “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

He sees Jason tense. Sees the punch before Jason throws it, telegraphed by the roll of his shoulder, the tight cord of his neck. Maybe Dick should let it land - he probably deserves it after all - but he catches Jason’s fist instead. Immediately, Jason tries to pull his hand back, his face contorting with fury, but Dick just uses his grip to pull the kid close again.

“Get the fuck off me,” Jason snarls, pulling against Dick’s hold. “You asshole! You’re damn fucking right you shouldn’t have. Don’t touch me!”

It’s a far cry from just a few moments ago, when Jason was pressing their faces together, tears salty between their lips.

“I know,” Dick says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t know how to make this _right_. And he should let go of Jason but he’s afraid that if he does, Jason will slip away from him and disappear and Dick won’t be able to find him again. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry Jason.”

Jason _sobs_ and Dick can feel his heart in his mouth, a coppery, acidic tang.

“Stop it,” Jason hiccups, but he isn’t pulling away anymore. He lets Dick reel him in. Let’s his head droop against his shoulder. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen,” Dick murmurs, ignoring him. “You don’t have to hold it all inside. I’m sorry I found out like that, but I’m not sorry I know. You don’t have to be ashamed.”

Jason makes a strange noise against Dick’s neck, something small and strangled. Dick swallows against the dryness of his mouth.

“You were raped, Jason. You’re allowed to have a reaction to that. You’re allowed to be scared and angry and confused. You’re allowed to have nightmares and wet the bed and freak out.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Jason grumbles. 

Dick laughs and is surprised that the sound is wet. Now that he’s noticed it, he can feel the back of his throat is damp and sticky. “I know.” He rubs a hand up and down Jason’s back, gently. “I still think you should hear it.”

Jason sniffles. “Whatever.”

“Whatever,” Dick agrees, with a smile. Then he pulls away, bending to pick up the bed sheets again. “C’mon let’s get this sorted. Go change and I’ll put a wash on.”

Jason rubs a hand over his face. “I know I don’t need to be ashamed or whatever, but if you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

Dick only manages to stop himself from ruffling Jason’s hair because his hands are full. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note on the kiss because it may have weirded a few people out - Dick and Jason aren’t attracted to each other and they definitely think of each other as brothers in this fic (although they aren’t as close as maybe they could be and they’re both aware that they aren’t blood-related). Jason kissed Dick because he felt vulnerable and wanted to control the situation in anyway he could. He didn’t think that Dick would hurt him and Dick is someone he feels safe enough and comfortable enough to express affection like that with. They definitely won’t be kissing again and they do not have any sexual/romantic feelings for each other.
> 
> Hopefully that makes sense (also as a note - I have nothing against JayDick as a ship, it just isn’t in this fic!)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s left a kudos and comment (and read this far) I always appreciate them ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys :) a quick warning for this chapter: this is where the suicidal thoughts tag comes in. It’s relatively brief and not necessarily something that’s thought about seriously, but it is discussed so please be careful if that’s going to bother you!
> 
> There’s also a slightly disturbing dream sequence but, again, there isn’t really anything more graphic than the rest of the fic!

Dick can talk all he wants about Jason not needing to be ashamed or embarrassed or whatever - Bruce too - but that doesn’t make it any easier to be around him after Jason’s breakdown, or whatever you want to call it. Which isn’t fair, really, because Dick has been nothing but kind to Jason and he hasn’t mentioned Jason’s little escapade - to anyone, as far as Jason is aware - or even acted weird around him.

But Jason is painfully aware of the fact that he had wet the bed like a five-year-old, then had a total fucking breakdown and _kissed_ Dick, covered in his own piss and crying like a lunatic. Just the thought of it has Jason’s cheeks heating.

And the worst part is, he doesn’t even know why he did it. Yeah, way back when, Jason had maybe had a bit of a little-kid crush on Dick, when the thought of being the first Robin had been achingly cool and Jason had been in awe of everything he did. But that had worn off the moment Jason had realised that Dick was just as human as the rest of them. Since then, Dick has alternated between a dorky big brother and an aloof distant relative depending upon how much time he’s been bothered to actually spend with Jason. There’s no part of Jason that actually wants to kiss Dick - not anymore - so why did he do it?

In the moment, all Jason can remember thinking is that Dick was there - that Dick had been so close and warm and he’d been touching Jason and Jason had wanted that. He’d wanted the closeness. He’d wanted someone to touch him and to not feel terrified about what they might do to him - how they might hurt him. The nightmare had still been crowding close in his head, running cold fingers down his spine and Jason had wanted that to _stop_. So he’d pressed their mouths together and it had felt _wrong_ but not in a frightening way and then Dick had been pulling back and he hadn’t hurt him, of course he hadn’t, and he hadn’t even let go of him until Jason had pulled away.

Then: _I know the Joker raped you_. And Jason still feels his throat close up in shame whenever he thinks about it. The word had felt like a blow, almost physical, because until then no one had actually _said_ it to him. Bruce had talked around it, sure, but no one had laid it out like that: _the Joker raped you_ , cold hard facts in the light of day. Despite everything, Jason had been doing a pretty good job of pretending it hadn’t happened - despite the nightmares and the fear - because he could always blame that on everything else that happened.

And Jason isn’t one of those kids. He _isn’t_. He’d seen plenty of them in foster care, even more of them on the streets. Kids with everything ripped out of them. Kids with sad eyes and grey faces who flinch at even friendly touches. Kids with something vital shattered to pieces inside them.

Except he _is_. Because - _cruel hands against his hips, hot breath against his ear, pain so sharp that Jason chokes_ \- there is something broken in Jason. The Joker destroyed some vital part of him, reached inside his chest with slick hands and tore whatever he could reach to bloody shreds. That night with Dick had solidified that: Dick pulling away from Jason in disgust because he’s tainted now, a layer of filth that Jason can’t scrub away; Dick laying those words out like an executioner's block, _you were raped_ ; Dick _knowing_.

More than anything, Jason wants it to not have happened. He wants to go back in time and find the moment that he shattered and change it. Wants to find the Jason that was so desperate to find his mother and shake him, punch him, tell him how badly it all turns out and how much he should just appreciate what he has because it can be so much worse.

But he can’t. Even Batman can’t go back in time and Jason definitely can’t. As much as he might want to, he can’t change what happened. He can’t change who he is now.

Plenty of other things have changed, though. Even if Bruce hasn’t acknowledged what happened, he treats Jason differently. More gently, more carefully, like he knows Jason is broken and is frightened of damaging him further. Dick does too, hanging around as if he’s always been here and hadn’t avoided Jason for years, talking too brightly and joking too much.

His body has changed too. The weeks in the hospital have made him softer, weaker. All of the muscle he had built up from years of training has atrophied quicker than Jason would have thought. It’ll take months to get himself back into half-way decent condition, maybe years to reach the same standard he was at. Maybe never. Jason is aware of the damage done to his hip and his hand. 

There’s a low ache in his hip more often than not. Sometimes it’s better than others. There are days when Jason barely feels it. There are others when Jason can hardly stand, let alone walk, through the pain.

And his hand will never be the same again. His grip strength is so bad that Jason struggles to hold anything, and his hand trembles even when he isn’t using it. Jason hates it. He hates the pain and the weakness and the fact that the Joker has this over him, this physical change on top of everything else.

He hates that the Joker has taken Robin from him.

Because there’s no way that Bruce is ever going to let Jason put the costume on again. Jason knows Bruce and he knows without even asking that his vigilante life is over. He had done the same with Dick after all, and if he’d done it to _Dick_ \- the golden boy, the perfect son - there’s no way he’s going to treat Jason any differently. Not when Jason has proven that Bruce can’t trust him out on the field. Not when Jason had gotten himself into so much trouble, had let Sheila trick him, had let the Joker overpower him, had let him _rape_ him.

And Jason isn’t even sure if he wants to be Robin again. He’s not sure if he can. When he thinks about it - about putting the costume back on - it sends cold fear shooting through his chest. All he can think about is the crushing terror of being under the Joker, the horror of that uniform being torn off of him, how weak he had felt, how small and frightened. What if he can’t handle that? What if putting the uniform on is always a reminder of the same uniform being torn off?

Not that it matters. Even if Jason’s hip wasn’t fucked, even if Jason’s hand hadn’t been crushed, he’s never going to be Robin again.

⁂

Jason has the nightmare again. More than once, actually. Nowadays Jason has nightmares almost every night, strange conglomerations of events and emotions, things that barely make sense or feel so real that he wakes up confused as well as terrified, but none of them are quite like this one.

Usually, the nightmares are horrible, but straight forward: the crack of his dad’s - _Wills’_ , not his dad, not anymore - hand; the Joker’s laughter; the gut-wrenching feeling of violation. Sometimes Jason doesn’t even remember them, just the impression of them, the hangover of emotions with no real source. But he always wakes up terrified, gasping for breath and soaked in sweat, but usually otherwise dry.

This one starts normal enough - or normal for him, anyway. It starts in the warehouse, the Joker pressing him into the dirt, hard hands on him and blood and breathless pain. Jason cries out, usually, for Bruce, for Dick, sometimes, but no one ever hears him. They can’t - not over the Joker’s laughter, loud as a scream in his ear. Then the dream fragments. The next part is always confusing, always a murky pit in his memory, but Jason knows, in the way that he does in dreams, that the Joker has put something inside him. That he’s changed him in some terrible, irrevocable way. 

Then Bruce is there, his face white with fury, and when he touches Jason’s stomach, he can feel it, the _thing_ inside of him, clawing at him, shredding his insides to mush and Jason screams, but the creature is heavy in his chest and he can’t draw any air into his crushed lungs and Bruce holds him still as it tears through him like something out of _Alien_ and there’s so much blood and fluid, hot and wet against his stomach, his legs, because his insides are being ripped out right along with it and why won’t Bruce help him?

The thing never actually makes it out of him but Jason knows it isn’t human. He can feel it’s talons, clawing him apart from the inside, the sharp peck of its beak. It’s a robin, maybe, probably, although Jason’s subconscious needs to be taken out and shot if it is. He doesn’t know for sure though, he never sees it. But he knows it’s a grotesque, mutated thing. 

That’s when Jason wakes up, usually, choking on a scream, the stink of urine and sweat heavy in the air. After that first, awkward night, Jason deals with it himself. He doesn’t need Dick to wash his sheets for him and he definitely doesn’t need Dick to comfort him. Jason doesn’t need anyone. It doesn’t even happen that often anyway. Jason can handle it.

Except...sometimes Jason isn’t sure if he can. Sometimes Jason sits in the darkness of his room after a nightmare and feels phantom hands against his skin. Feels fingers constricting his throat, hard as steel against flesh, and he can’t breathe and it’s terrifying and Jason wants to go find Bruce so badly that it hurts.

But Jason has never gone to Bruce after a nightmare before. Back when Jason first came to live with him, he was too afraid. Bruce had only ever been kind to him, but Jason had been fresh off the streets and wary of kindness, not entirely convinced that Bruce didn’t want something from him that Jason wouldn’t be able to give. Crawling into the man’s bed, for whatever reason, might as well have been an invitation.

Then, when Jason had been certain that Bruce would never do _that_ , never touch him like that, Jason had been too old. Needing his dad after a nightmare was too childish and Jason was a teenager, old enough to handle his shitty brain himself.

At fifteen, Jason has surpassed the acceptable age for crawling into his dad’s bed after a nightmare by a good few years. And yet, every night, Jason finds himself fighting against the urge to go and find him.

Until, eventually, Jason sacrifices his pride and does it.

It’s not _the_ nightmare, but it’s a bad one. Jason wakes up choking, his face wet with tears, his throat tight with remembered agony. Then he lies in the darkness for a long time, trying to blank his mind, trying to force himself back into sleep, trying desperately not to think about the Joker. It works about as well as it always does, and Jason is abruptly sure that he can’t do this anymore. He can’t spend another night with only his own awful thoughts for company. He can’t handle the throbbing pain in his hip or the ache in his chest or the little voice in his head telling him that he deserves this.

So he goes to find Bruce.

Well, find might be the wrong word, because Jason knows exactly where Bruce’s room is and Bruce has only been out as Batman a few times since they’ve returned, and he always tells Jason when and where. So Bruce isn’t hard to find. The hardest part is convincing himself to actually open the door and go in. 

Jason’s heart is pounding as if he’s about to face down the rogue gallery rather than his dad and his palms are sweaty and he feels a little sick with shame. If he actually goes in, Bruce will know. He’ll know exactly how badly Jason is struggling and it’ll be just another mark against him. It’ll be just more evidence of how weak Jason is, how pathetic.

Jason opens the door before he can think better of it.

The room beyond is dark and warm and quiet. Jason pads across the carpet as softly as he can but his hip is stiff and sore tonight and his steps are awkward and shuffling. Bruce stirs before Jason even reaches the bed, a dark lump in the dim light.

“Jay?” Bruce murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, and Jason hesitates. This is so stupid, so pathetic. Jason should turn around now and leave before Bruce wakes up properly and realises why he’s here. He should shuffle back to his own room and pull his covers up over his head and lie there until morning, even if he can’t find sleep again.

But Jason can’t. He feels frozen to the carpet. His chest is so tight that he can barely breathe.

“Jay?” Bruce asks again and Jason can see him moving, can hear him shifting against the sheets. “Jason is that you?”

Jason shuts his eyes and tries to imagine how this would go in another life. Tries to imagine how it had been for Dick, maybe, when he had been young and trusting and he’d wet the bed or had a nightmare. Jason bets he didn’t have a problem coming to Bruce. He imagines Dick sneaking into Bruce’s room. Imagines Bruce reaching out and pulling him easily into bed, sleep-rumpled and warm.

Jason wants that. He wants to be that small, that young. He wants to be held and protected and comforted. If only he were younger and he could be enveloped in Bruce’s embrace, his dad’s shoulders wide enough to block out the world, naive enough to think that would solve all his problems. Young enough not to care.

Jason _aches_ with the desire.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce’s voice is urgent. When Jason opens his eyes again, Bruce is sitting upright, reaching for the bedside lamp with one arm. Jason flinches as it flickers to life. Even that small light seems too bright after the darkness. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

Jason’s teeth feel glued together, his jaw locked tight. He shakes his head. Bruce shifts and then he’s in front of Jason, kneeling on the carpet and gently grasping Jason’s arms. It puts Jason a head taller than him, so that Bruce has to look up to meet his eyes.

“Is it your hip?” Bruce doesn’t move his hands, although he clearly wants to check for an injury. Maybe he’s scared Jason will react badly to the touch. Jason isn’t sure if he would.

He shakes his head again. Then, small and pathetic: “I had a nightmare.”

It hangs in the air for a second, as if neither of them can believe he’s said it. Then Bruce’s face softens into something that might be pity on anyone else and he folds Jason carefully into his arms.

These past few weeks, Jason has been hugged more than he has in probably years. Normally Jason would chafe at such intimate affection. Now he just tucks his head into Bruce’s neck and leans into him. Maybe he should cry - like he did with Dick, like he did the last time Bruce had held him - but his eyes are dry.

Bruce hums and Jason feels the vibration of it in his own chest. “Do you want to stay in here? Or do you want to do something else?”

“Here’s fine,” Jason murmurs. He wants to say: _can I sleep here?_ , but that seems too...vulnerable, so he doesn’t.

Bruce seems to understand anyway. He stands, then he shuffles them both back towards the bed, keeping his arms around Jason, tipping them both onto the mattress. Jason presses close and Bruce squeezes his arms around him before reaching up and brushing a stray curl from Jason’s face. Jason is too embarrassed to look at him. Babies sleep in bed with their dads - Jason’s too old for this.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bruce asks, softly.

Jason isn’t sure if he does. The words come any way, slithering out of his throat, dripping thick and sticky into the air.

“It was the Joker,” he whispers. Swallows against the dryness of his throat.

Bruce hums again but he doesn’t actually say anything. It’s not likely to be a surprise to him, or anyone, that it’s the Joker haunting Jason’s dreams.

“It was...it was like I was there again. In the warehouse with him...with him…” He stops. Sniffs. Swallows. The sound of his throat working is loud in the quiet. Why is he saying this? To _Bruce_? Why can’t he stop the words tumbling out? “I can feel his...his hands, his…”

He shudders. That’s the main constant of his dreams: the hands on him, the probing fingers. It’s the moment he relives most often, whilst sleeping and awake: those final few seconds of innocence before the Joker had peeled his shorts away and _touched him_. That awful realisation of exactly what was going to happen, exactly what the Joker was going to do to him and how little he could do to stop it. Bruce’s arms tighten and Jason’s next words are muffled by the soft fabric of his pyjama shirt.

“All the time.” And the words hitch. _God,_ Jason is so fucking pathetic. “All the fucking time. I thought you said it would stop hurting.”

“It will, Jay,” Bruce murmurs, sounding pained. “It’ll take time and work, but it’ll get better.”

“But I want it to be better now,” Jason whines, aware of how pitiful he sounds. “I want to stop dreaming about _him_. I want to stop...reliving it. What’s wrong with my head? It’s over, he’s _dead_. Why is it doing this?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your head. Or you. It’s perfectly normal to have nightmares. It-“

“I wet the bed,” Jason interrupts. Too loudly, considering he’s pressed right up against Bruce. And he doesn’t know why he says it because he remembers the awful burning shame of Dick discovering him, of knowing that if anyone else found out he would die from the embarrassment. But suddenly he can’t stand the idea of Bruce trying to comfort him without knowing.

Bruce stiffens. “Tonight?”

“No. A...a couple of times. Not tonight.”

Bruce makes a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you?” Then, before Bruce can lie to him: “I didn’t want you to know how fucked up I am.”

“You are not fucked up,” Bruce says immediately, because he’s nothing if not predictable. And if Jason hadn’t wanted him to lie to him, then he probably should have just changed the topic. But he can’t seem to let it go.

“Yes I am.” A wild little laugh follows the words. “I’m...I feel _broken_.” And it costs him to admit it, to air his weakness and insecurity out like this. But now that he’s started he can’t stop. The words are like bile, surging up his throat and spilling all over him, hot and acidic. “He broke me.”

Bruce makes a low, angry sound at the back of his throat. “No you aren’t Jason. You’re not broken. You’re not fucked up. Something fucked up happened to you. That’s not your fault. It’s not _you_.”

“Fucked up stuff happens to people all the time” Jason argues, bitterly. “They don’t...I’m supposed to be _Robin_. I’m supposed to be stronger than this.”

“You are strong,” Bruce murmurs and his hand strokes through Jason’s hair again. “You’re so strong, Jay. You survived something terrible and I’m so proud of you for that.”

“Only because you came to rescue me!” Jason snaps. “If you hadn’t, he would have killed me or...or done it again because I couldn’t _stop_ him. I tried. I fought so fucking hard and it wasn’t enough. It should have been. I shouldn’t have to be rescued.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help.”

Bruce is saying all the right things, soothing all the right concerns, and it’s not like Jason wants Bruce to agree with him - to tell him he’s weak and filthy and broken - but something about his comforting has irritation crawling up Jason’s throat. Maybe it feels too much like dismissal. Or maybe it’s just that Jason knows he’s lying.

“There’s a difference between needing back up on a mission and needing someone to save you because you’re too pathetic to get yourself out of trouble.”

“Jason,” Bruce says, and his voice is hard enough that Jason flinches. “Needing help is not _pathetic_. Everybody has needed a rescue at some point, and if they say they haven’t, they’re lying.”

“Yeah? Have you?”

Jason expects Bruce to hesitate. Expects to hear the lie in his silence, but Bruce answers almost before he can get the question out.

“Of course I have. I’ve had missions that have gone wrong. I’ve had villains who have gotten the upper hand. You can’t win every fight, Jay.”

“But it’s not the same! You’ve never -“ and he stumbles. Chokes. Has to squeeze the words out, small and strangled and ugly. “You’d never let someone rape you.”

There’s a relief in saying the word. There’s relief in cracking his chest open and baring all the sick, ugly parts of him - the dark spaces where his shame has festered and rotted. Not that there isn’t shame at the words too, clogging his throat and setting his cheeks burning.

Bruce drops the hand that was carding through his hair to the back of Jason’s neck and squeezes gently. Jason wonders if he can feel the heat of his shame burning through his skin.

“It isn’t about _letting_ something like that happen,” Bruce says, and his voice has lost the hard edge, turned soft and quiet. “I’m not...look, Jay, I’m not the best at this sort of thing. I don’t know what the right thing to say is. But I know you can’t _let_ people rape you. It doesn’t happen because you’re too weak or you somehow invited it or for any reason other than the fact that someone decided to hurt you.”

Jason presses his face harder against Bruce’s chest. It’s everything he wants to hear but it hurts too, a dull ache in his chest, his throat.

“There are times when people could have hurt me like that too, if they’d really wanted. That choice was on them, not on me, and they chose not to. But I couldn’t always have stopped them. The choice to hurt you was the Joker’s, it’s not on you Jason. It’s never on you.”

Jason is quiet while he digests that. It’s maybe the most...vulnerable Bruce has ever been with him. Certainly the most honest. Jason isn’t entirely sure if he likes it but he can appreciate what Bruce is trying to do.

“Do you...do you ever have nightmares?” Jason manages, finally, because if Bruce is being honest with him, Jason is going to take advantage of it.

“Of course I do,” Bruce answers, still more honestly than Jason was expecting. “I still have nightmares about my parents, even now.” The hand on Jason’s neck moves to press against his back instead, rubbing up and down in a steady rhythm. Like this, Jason can hear the thrum of Bruce’s heart, the low rumble of his voice. “I have nightmares about you and Dick - about you being hurt.” A heavy swallow, amplified through the chamber of Bruce’s ribs. “I have nightmares about not being quick enough to save you from the bomb.”

Jason’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. Something in his chest gives a painful little twinge.

“Sometimes…” and Jason shouldn’t say it, but he’s already been flayed wide open and he doesn’t have the strength to stop himself. “Sometimes I wish you hadn’t.”

Bruce stiffens. The hand on Jason’s back stills, right between his shoulder blades. “You wish I hadn’t what?” Bruce asks, very carefully calm.

This is Jason’s opportunity to back out. Pretend he didn’t say anything. Pretend he doesn’t think it. But he _can’t_. He wants Bruce to know. He _needs_ Bruce to know. He’s so fucking tired and he can’t do this alone anymore.

“I wish you hadn’t saved me.”

The words drop like stones into the air. Jason can practically feel the weight of them, feel the ripple of them in the darkness. For a moment, the words just settle in the quiet, then Bruce is jolting upright, dragging Jason with him quickly enough to make his head spin. Hard hands close around Jason’s arms, forcing him backwards, then Bruce is leaning down towards him, trying to catch his eye and Jason is too stunned to avoid it.

“Don’t say that,” Bruce says, fiercely. “Don’t ever say that.”

Jason gasps. He tries to pull away, but Bruce holds firm. Embarrassingly, he can feel the hot prickle of tears behind his eyes, a pins and needles flush across his cheek that’s part shock and part shame.

“Why not?” He tries to snarl it but the words are too weak. “It would be easier for everyone if I’d died in that explosion! I wouldn’t...I wouldn’t have to feel like this. And you and Dick - you wouldn’t have to coddle me. Dick wouldn’t have to pretend to care. You wouldn’t have to put up with me because you can’t think of a polite way to chuck me out!”

“Jason!”

“It would be better for everyone if I was dead.”

Bruce jerks as if Jason had slapped him. His face is very white, like all the blood has drained right out of it, and his throat works as if he’s trying not to be sick - or maybe trying to force out words that won’t come. For a moment, he just blinks at Jason in stunned silence.

Then: “That’s not true, Jason,” he says and the words are low and rough but heavy with conviction. “I’m so, so sorry that you feel that way. But you’re wrong.”

He shakes Jason then, gently, and his gaze is dark and too intense but Jason can’t seem to make himself drop his eyes.

“Dick and I aren’t just putting up with you. You’re my son, Jason. I...I love you more than anything in the world. I would never, ever throw you out and you certainly haven’t done anything to deserve it if I did.”

Jason’s throat feels thick and sticky, sealed shut. _I love you_. His mind catches on it, skipping over and over it like a broken record. Is that the first time Bruce has said that to him? Would Jason have believed it, if he’d said it before?

As if sensing his thoughts, Bruce pulls him close again, crushing Jason back against his chest. 

“If I’d lost you I - when you were in that hospital bed and I thought - I thought -“ He cuts off with a wet sound. Jason can hear his next ragged inhale. Feels his chest hitch. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him from hurting you. But you survived and I couldn’t be more grateful for that.”

Jason shuts his eyes against the moisture he can feel welling behind his lids. He’s cried so often in the last few weeks and he’s tired of it. He’s tired of feeling so helpless, of hating himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and he’s not sure if Bruce can even hear it. “I just...I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Bruce says immediately. Then he presses a kiss to the top of Jason’s head. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

Jason doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he doesn’t. They sit in silence for a long time then, Bruce’s arms wrapped tight around him. Jason might have fallen asleep if they were still lying down but Bruce seems hesitant to move, as if it will shatter something fragile in the air.

Then: “I think you should talk to a therapist, Jay.”

Heat floods through Jason’s whole body, an abrupt surge of embarrassment. It’s a strange shock after the peaceful quiet. “I don’t need a shrink.”

“I think it will help you.”

Jason finally pulls away. Bruce lets him this time, dropping the loose circle of his arms back to the bed. Jason feels cold and strangely exposed without them.

“So all that shit you said about me not being fucked up was all talk, was it?”

“Of course not,” Bruce says, voice strained. “Therapy is just another tool to help you heal. Like surgery or your physical therapy. It’s not a bad thing.”

And Jason gets that - he does - but it still leaves a bad taste in his mouth, something thick and bitter. He feels exhausted suddenly. Wrung out by the nightmare and his confessions and the emotion that’s thick in the air. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. So he just shifts, shuffling around Bruce to lie down on the bed, his back to his dad and the cool night air.

“I’m tired,” he says, without turning. “I’m going to bed.”

Bruce is quiet for a few minutes. Then Jason hears him shuffling too, feels the dip of the mattress and the heat of Bruce’s arm against his back. It’s nice to have him there, protecting Jason’s exposed flank, even if Jason wouldn’t actually admit it.

“Just think about it. Please.”

Jason doesn’t reply. Maybe Bruce will think he’s already asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why I write so many POVs guys - it’s hard 😩

“It’s definitely the Wayne kid.”

“How can you tell? You can’t even see his face.”

A scoff. An arm reaches over Clark’s shoulder to jab at the grainy symbol on Superman’s chest, half-obscured by the kid in his arms.

“You think Superman would go all the way to Ethiopia for Joe Nobody? Nah, it’s definitely a rich kid.”

Clark feels a little ill. The picture stares up at him from the desk, his own face pale and hard, Jason a red and white blur. The cape mostly obscures the kid’s identity - and the worst of his injuries, twisted limbs and bruised flesh hidden beneath the folds of fabric. Clark remembers them in horrendous technicolour detail even if he wishes he couldn’t.

A hand lands heavy on his shoulder and Clark jumps, only mostly for effect.

“You’re buddy-buddy with Wayne aren’t you, Kent? You think you could get the inside scoop on this?”

Clark swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. Tries to imagine asking Bruce anything about _this_ as anything other than a concerned friend. The thought of turning Jason’s pain into some sort of media spectacle is stomach turning.

“I wouldn’t say buddy-buddy,” Clark argues, weakly. “I interviewed him a couple times.” 

“Exactly,” Perry says, steamrolling right over Clark’s objection. “That’s practically friendship for Bruce Wayne.”

Clark thinks about Batman kneeling in the sand, the desperate rasp of his voice as he’d screamed Clark’s name. Thinks about the little thready pulse and the silence where there should have been breath. Thinks about Bruce scrambling for that cape as it slid to the sand and every awful thing it had exposed.

“What do you think then?” Steve leans forward again, scrutinising the picture over Clark’s shoulder. Clark can feel the heat of him, hear the steady thrum of his pulse. “Think there’s actually a story there? Some freaky sex shit, maybe?”

“Steve!”

“What? Come on Lois, a hundred percent he’s naked under that cape.”

“Bruce Wayne’s son is only fifteen.”

Clark feels Steve’s shrug rather than sees it. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the red blur of his cape.

“So? Kids get raped all the time.”

And it’s so blunt that Clark’s breath catches. He can hear his own pulse, thrumming in his ears. Hear the echo of Bruce’s roar: _He raped him._

And Clark had known that it happened. He had known the moment he had lifted Jason into his arms. The kid had been so hurt, covered in bruises and blood, too still and lifeless. He’d been practically naked once Bruce’s cape had slid away, his leggings gone, his tunic torn and ruined. The smell of blood and sweat and fear had been so strong that Clark had almost gagged. And underneath that, he could smell the bleachy stink of semen. It had been like a dagger, straight through Clark’s heart. That awful realisation. Knowing exactly what had happened to the kid. Knowing that someone had touched him, _raped_ him. That there was someone out there who could look at a child and _want_ to hurt them like that. Cold horror still spears through Clark whenever he thinks about it.

And, look, Clark knows that there are plenty of people out there who do want that. That things like that _do_ happen all the time - that kid’s _are_ being hurt on a daily basis and that even Superman can’t save them all. But it’s different when it’s someone he knows, and it shouldn’t be, but it is. It’s different when it’s the kid he’d first met clinging to Batman’s cape, the kid he’d shown round the watch tower because Jason had told Bruce how much _cooler_ Superman is. It’s different when Clark can picture Jason’s bright-eyed excitement and compare it to the devastation the Joker has wreaked on him.

Because Jason had been...Clark doesn’t actually have words for how battered Jason had been. When Clark had gently removed the tattered mask from Robin’s face, the skin underneath had been wet with blood and tears, splotchy and swollen. When he'd peeled away the ruined tunic too, as quickly as he could without tearing it off of Jason, lurid bruises had painted Jason’s torso. More bruises had spanned his throat - thick fingermarks and purple smudges where the blood had been drawn to the surface by a cruel mouth, the indent of teeth. 

Exposing even more of the kid had felt so wrong that Superman’s hands had trembled, but he couldn’t bring Robin to a civilian hospital - not without risking Bruce’s secret identity. So he’d bared Jason to the elements, even if he’d had to swallow against the acid in his throat as he did it. Then Clark had wrapped his own cape tight around him and cradled him close to his chest. He had been so fragile. Clark’s horror had been a dark, ugly thing in his gut.

It’s not like Steve could have known about any of that but hearing him talk about it so casually still turns Clark’s stomach anyway.

“There’s definitely a story,” Perry says. “Superman doesn’t fuck off to Ethiopia for nothing. You can barely rely on the guy to turn up in Metropolis and he flies halfway around the world?”

The hand in Clark’s shoulder squeezes hard enough that it might be painful for anyone else.

“And you’re going to figure it out, aren’t you Kent?

“Sure,” Clark mutters, although the chances of him writing anything about this are less than none. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Now get back to work.”

There’s a shuffling as everyone moves back to their own desks and Clark feels a little easing in his chest as the crowd behind him starts to dissipate. Lois shifts closer, slipping into the space Perry left behind. When Clark glances up at her, her eyes are on the picture, lips pursed in displeasure.

“What happened?” She asks, feeling his gaze on her and her voice is low enough that only Clark can hear it. Of course she would ask. She knows that it’s him in that picture after all. Clark can’t hide that side of his life from her anymore.

He shrugs uncomfortably. It’s not really his story to tell and, besides, he doesn’t even know what he _can_ say. How can he tell her how badly this has affected him without revealing his friendship with Bruce? How can he tell her anything without risking the secret identities of everyone involved?

Lois moves to perch on the edge of his desk, so he can’t avoid the weight of her eyes. “Is it the Wayne kid?”

“Yeah,” Clark sighs. “Yeah, it is.”

“And you were in Ethiopia with him because?”

Clark shrugs again. He doesn’t particularly like lying to Lois, but he also isn’t comfortable with revealing Batman’s secret identity and trying to stick to the truth is only going to make that complicated.

“I was there on league business,” he lies. He can’t hold Lois’ gaze as he does it, so he drops his eyes back to the desk, to his own hands, twisting over each other with his discomfort. “I heard that he was in trouble and I couldn’t not help him. It was a lucky coincidence.”

Lois is quiet. It’s hard to tell if she believes him or not - although there’s no real reason not to. It’s just Clark’s own guilt telling him that the lie is obvious in his voice. Then: “Is he OK?”

Clark shakes his head mutely. He actually has no idea whether Jason is OK or not. He hasn’t been back to the hospital since the kid woke up. He didn’t want to intrude. He knows Jason made it out of surgery, but Clark has no idea whether he’ll actually be _OK_ again. He doesn’t know how anyone could fully recover from that, let alone a _kid_ and the thought makes his stomach flip-flop funnily.

“No,” he manages. “I don’t think he is.”

⁂

The media interest dies down pretty quickly after Bruce makes his statement. Sure, Gotham’s sweetheart always makes for an interesting story - his children even more so - but a kidnapping is almost too common place to be newsworthy and Bruce refuses to speak to the press beyond that. There’s only so much of a story anyone can eke out of it.

Clark is glad for it and Perry is only half-hearted in his criticism of Clark for failing to procure an interview. He hadn’t really been expecting him to, anyway, Clark suspects. It’s not as though anyone at work actually thinks they’re friends. Sure, Clark hasn’t been as careful as he should have been these past few weeks, but it’s not as though anyone actually knows anything about them.

Actually, Clark has hardly spoken to Bruce at all, since that first painful night in the hospital. Not that that’s a surprise, necessarily. Superman had offered to keep an eye on Gotham in Batman’s absence and he had begrudgingly agreed. Clark had taken that as an excuse for him to stay away. It’s not as though Clark can really afford to be flying back and forth to Ethiopia anyway - not with his new responsibility in Gotham, not if he wants to keep everyone’s secret identities safe.

It isn’t until they return to Gotham that Clark finally gets to speak to Bruce again. Superman catches him in one of Gotham’s many alleys, out as the Bat for the first time in weeks. There are already four thugs lying groaning on the floor around him. Batman’s hand is wrapped tight around the throat of another, pummelling his fist into the unfortunate man’s face with a ferocity that must feel like a sledgehammer. For a second, Superman pauses, surprised to see him there. He’d neglected to warn Superman that he would be on patrol tonight. Clark hadn’t actually known they were back in Gotham.

Then Batman delivers another brutal blow to the man in his grasp - the man who’s already unconscious and looking on the way to worse - and Superman jolts back into action.

“Batman?”

Batman whirls towards him with a snarl. With the cowl on, only half of his face is exposed but Superman can see his mouth, twisted in an ugly grimace. He doesn’t release his hold on the thug, even though the man is utterly limp in his grasp.

Something cold slides down Clark’s spine. “Stand down,” he barks, although he normally wouldn’t dream of shouting orders at the _Batman_. “He’s down.”

For a moment, Superman thinks he might just ignore him. Batman wavers. Superman can hear the creak of his glove as his fingers flex, the rapid-fire beat of his heart, the strained breaths the thug is managing to squeeze through his grip. Then Batman relents, his shoulders slumping as his arms fall back to his sides, letting the man slide to the ground, unconscious.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in that deep growl he uses when he’s in uniform.

Superman considers asking him the same thing. It’s a nasty surprise to see him here. And Superman won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt - that Bruce and Jason are back in Gotham and no one had thought to clue him in. That Bruce hadn’t thought to talk to him beyond that desperate rescue.

He can’t, though. Not when Batman seems so volatile.

“You asked me to keep an eye on Gotham while you were away, remember? I didn’t realise you’d be out tonight.”

Batman stares. Then his head twitches - in annoyance maybe, or maybe just acknowledgement.

“Hn.” He steps over the limp forms, catching a pale hand with the heel of his boot as he does so. “I’m here now. You can leave.”

Superman winces at the callous display. It’s always been a fine line with Batman - a muddy boundary between hero and villain. Not just Batman - it’s something that all of them need to be aware of, all that power, all that control. It’s so easy to tip those scales right over the edge. And Bruce, however justified, is a killer now. Superman can’t escape that.

“I don’t think I should,” Superman says, as Batman brushes past him. “I think you need me here.”

“I don’t,” Batman growls.

In the darkness of the alley he’s just another black shape, the edges of him fuzzy and indistinct. If Superman had normal vision, he might not even be able to see him.

“Come on, you can’t tell me that was OK.”

Batman’s shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t turn around. “They’re criminals. They need to be handled.”

“They’re petty thugs!” Superman argues. The same slimy, cold thing that had slid down his spine, wriggles in his gut. “They don’t need beating into unconsciousness. You nearly killed him!”

“If you don’t like it, you can fuck off back to Metropolis.”

“Batman, please. I know you’re struggling with what happened to Robin but-“

Batman whirls around so quickly that Superman knows he would struggle to track it if he were anyone else. Then he’s on Superman like an animal, something huge and furious. Hands close around the fastening of Superman’s cape and jerk him forward and Superman moves with it. He likes this cape and he doesn’t think his mom would appreciate having to sew it up again.

“Don’t. Don’t talk about that. This has nothing to do with it.”

“Of course it does,” Superman says, much more gently. “It has everything to do with it.”

He clasps Batman’s wrists, carefully pulling himself free but not releasing his friend. The flat, white lenses of the cowl glare back at him. 

“You’re angry. I get it. But you can’t take it out on innocent people.”

“They’re hardly innocent,” Batman growls. Then he pulls against Superman’s grip hard enough that Clark automatically lets go.

“B, this isn’t you.”

“Maybe it should be.” One of his hands curls into a fist at his side, as if maybe he’s thinking about punching Superman - for all the good that would do him. “You want to make this about Robin? If I’d handled the Joker properly none of this would have happened. If I’d just put him out of his misery the first time, he never would have been able to hurt Robin and hundreds of people would still be alive.”

Clark’s chest hurts. This is so unlike his friend. It hurts to know how deeply the Joker has dug his claws in, how badly he’s destroyed them. “You can’t be judge, jury and executioner. This isn’t you. You can’t let the Joker win.”

The punch he’s expecting doesn’t come, although Batman’s hand twitches as if he’s having to restrain himself from letting it fly. There’s an ugly twist to his mouth and Superman is abruptly glad that he can’t see his eyes.

“He’s already won! He got exactly what he fucking wanted.”

“No he hasn’t,” Superman manages through the tight construction of his throat. “Robin is alive. The Joker can’t hurt him anymore. And you can make sure he hasn’t got you too. You’re not a killer, B.”

“I didn’t kill them,” Batman says, coldly.

“You could have done. If I hadn’t stopped you.”

There’s no response to that - no acknowledgement. Batman just turns on his heels and starts striding out of the alley. Superman scrambles after him, feeling out of his depth but not wanting Batman to be alone. Who knows what he might do if Superman lets him leave by himself, whilst he’s angry and hurting.

“Where’s Nightwing?” Superman asks, because Batman rarely patrols alone and he wants Dick to take the responsibility off his hands.

“At home.” Comes the gruff reply.

“What? He’s not patrolling with you?”

Batman’s head twitches, as if he’d started to turn around then thought better of it. The hard line of his shoulders doesn’t ease.

“He’s not allowed to patrol in Gotham. He knows that.”

Superman swallows his instinctive reply. Yeah, he knows they’d had that falling out. Knows Dick is staying in Bludhaven now, more often than not. But that was before everything that happened with Jason. Knowing Dick, he hadn’t let this happen without a fight. And knowing Bruce, he shouldn’t be patrolling alone.

“And he’s OK with you patrolling by yourself?”

Batman does turn then, and Superman is treated to another white-eyed stare. “I don’t need permission from my _son_ to patrol my own city.”

“OK,” Superman says, lamely, holding his hands up in surrender. There’s no point labouring the point. Not when Bruce is being like this. “Well I’m here now. Let me join you?” Then, when Batman just stares: “Please.”

“Hn,” Batman says and Superman takes that as permission.

⁂

“We’ll have our own security there, of course,” the aide says.

Superman nods, feeling oddly uncomfortable and out of his depth. This is definitely the hardest part of being a superhero - all the diplomacy. If Superman could just do the actual hero things like saving people from house fires or natural disasters or evil villains, well, Clark certainly wouldn’t be complaining. But it’s a necessary evil of the job. And it’s important in its own way.

“But it never hurts to have more for an event like this,” the aide continues. “Especially one of your calibre.”

“Of course,” Superman agrees, not reacting to the compliment. He gets them often and it’s hard to find a good response to them. There’s a balance between egotistical and self-deprecating and Superman is never sure if he finds it. It’s better just to pretend they don’t exist.

The aide shifts a little uncomfortably. Maybe Clark should have been more receptive. He offers the other man a warm smile but it doesn’t seem to ease the tension.

“And er...I have to warn you, Superman. We have a rather… _controversial_ guest in attendance.”

That piques Clark’s interest. “What do you mean? Controversial?”

The aide practically squirms. Then he leans forward right into Superman’s space, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Look, if it were up to us, this wouldn’t be possible. But Iran have assigned him as their delegate so there isn’t much we can do about it. Now we just have to minimise the damage.”

He straightens. Offers Superman a strained smile.

“That’s why we’re bringing you in. We need you to make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy.”

A cold sense of dread drops like an anchor into Clark’s stomach. It’s as though someone has hooked fingers into his guts and pulled. His heart is suddenly racing, punching against his throat. He can hear the rush of blood in his head.

“Who is it?” He asks and his voice is strangled.

The aide winces. Then he reaches into the plain manilla folder on the desk in front of him and pulls out a glossy sheet of A4 paper.

Superman watches him drop the picture onto the desk with the same sense of helpless dread as watching the gavel bang down on a death sentence. Because he knows. He knows exactly who’s picture he’s about to see, but he can’t stop it. It’s a runaway train and Superman is too late to correct its course.

For a long moment, Superman can’t bring himself to actually look at it. When he finally glances down, he finds exactly the face he was expecting grinning back at him.

It’s the Joker.

Despite expecting it, cold shock still spears right through him. It’s a horrible jolt straight down his spine. An enormous lump suddenly swells in his throat. It’s...it’s not possible. It’s not right.

_He’s dead,_ Bruce had said and Clark had believed him. 

How had they missed this? How hadn’t Superman known? Had there been another heartbeat in that scorching desert? Someone living in the ruined debris of that warehouse? Superman had been too focussed on the aching void where Robin’s breath should have been. Clark can’t remember. And it had seemed so impossible that anyone could survive that devastation, no one had bothered to check.

No one had retrieved the body.

“I know,” the aide says, disgust clear in his voice. And Clark doesn’t know what his face looks like but it can’t be anything good. “Trust me, this is the last thing anyone wants but we can’t risk...damaging relationships. The Joker will have diplomatic immunity.”

There’s a strained pause. Perhaps the aide is waiting for Superman to speak, but he can’t. His throat is so tight that he can’t draw enough breath.

“That’s partly why you’re here,” he finally continues, when Clark is silent for too long. “We need you to protect him as well as protecting us. Unfortunately we can’t let anything happen to him.”

Superman starts to nod, dumbly, before he catches himself. This...he can’t do this, can he? When Bruce finds out - and Bruce will definitely find out, Clark knows - he isn’t going to sit back and let the Joker get away with this quietly. There’s going to be a fight and Clark knows that he won’t be able to stop it. Knows without even trying, that talking Bruce out of hunting the Joker down is going to be impossible. Can Clark really take the Joker’s side? Can he really protect the man who raped his friend’s son?

Clark doesn’t have to be a father to appreciate the horror of what the Joker has done. It doesn’t have to be his own kid to have anger burning in Clark’s throat. The last thing he wants is to allow someone who raped a _child_ \- any child - to walk free. 

But...if the Joker really does have diplomatic immunity, Superman can’t allow Batman to kill him. And he will kill him, Superman is sure of that. Last time, there hadn’t been anything Superman could do about it - and he had comforted himself with the fact that Batman hadn’t _actually_ killed him - not really. When it had been the bomb that had taken the Joker out, Clark could pretend that his friend hadn’t made that decision. Now there won’t be that barrier. Can Superman really let Bruce kill in cold blood, regardless of anything else?

No. 

Superman knows himself well enough to know that. And he knows Batman well enough too. Bruce will forgive him, eventually. In the future, he might even thank him.

Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Either way, Superman knows he’s going to have to talk to him. He’ll have to break the news, probably, because Bruce had been certain that the Joker was dead and Clark is sure he would have noticed if the Bat had found out that’s no longer true.

“OK,” Superman agrees and the word tastes like acid in his mouth. “I’ll do it.”

This is going to be painful.

⁂

“Why are you here?” Bruce asks, gruffly, and Clark tries not to be hurt by the question. They’re friends - to an extent - but Wayne Manor is off limits for even Clark and he knows he’s put Bruce on edge by turning up unannounced. 

It’s not as though Clark has much of a choice though. If he wants Bruce to hear the news from him, he can’t wait to chance across Batman on patrol. It has to be now, before Bruce hears it from someone else and feels he has to act.

Still, that doesn’t mean it’s easy to actually get the words out. Bruce is going to take this badly and Clark can’t even blame him for that.

“I’ve been asked to provide security for the Iranian delegate at the UN conference,” Clark starts. Maybe he should just come right out and say it, but the words stick in his throat.

“Hn,” is all Bruce says in reply. If he senses bad news coming, Clark can’t tell.

And Clark finds he can’t look at him. He stares at his feet instead, as if he’s suddenly wildly interested in the dark wood of the study’s floor. “Well, protection for and _from_ him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Bruce asks. There’s a sharp edge to his voice. Suspicion and exasperation rolled into one.

Clark does look up then. He doesn’t want to but he needs to see Bruce’s face. He needs to know how he reacts to the news.

“It’s the Joker, Bruce. The Joker is the Iranian delegate.”

Bruce’s face doesn’t change. It’s as though he’s turned to marble, pale and perfectly still. Only the flicker of his eyes and the skip of his heartbeat tells Clark he even heard him. Clark feels just as frozen. He should say something, maybe an apology or something placating, but the words feel trapped in his throat.

Then: “That’s not possible.”

It’s said with conviction, not a shred of doubt in the words. Bruce’s voice is so calm, perfectly flat, any emotion smoothed right out of it. 

“The Joker is dead. You must be mistaken.”

Part of Clark is soothed by the words, even though he knows Bruce doesn’t have all the facts. He sounds so confident, so sure of what he’s saying. It hurts Clark to have to argue with him.

“Maybe I am,” he says, carefully. “I can only tell you what I’ve been told. They had a picture.”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw twitches. “They might not know he’s dead. The picture could be old.”

“Or he might be alive,” Clark presses. He understands Bruce’s avoidance as much as anyone, but it’s important that they talk about this - that Clark gets his point across - and they can’t do that if Bruce is flat-out denying it. “Look, Bruce, if the Joker did survive -“

“There’s no way he survived that explosion,” Bruce snaps. “It’s not possible.”

“You know better than anyone that it could be. Come on, Bruce. Please. If he is dead then this doesn’t matter. But if he is alive, I need you to promise that you won’t go after him.”

Clark can hear Bruce’s heart thudding in his chest. Sees the ripple of his muscles as he tries to control his reaction. 

“Promise I won’t go after him?” Bruce repeats and his voice is so cold that Clark almost shivers. “If _the Joker_ is alive-“

“What?”

In the split second before they both spin towards the door, Clark sees the last of the blood drain out of Bruce’s face. Sees the devastated expression that flashes across it before he flattens it out as he turns to where his son stands in the doorway.

Because Jason is right there, his face pale, clinging to the doorknob like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. Those ugly bruises are gone now and so are the bandages, Jason mostly whole and healthy looking in the soft orange glow from the study lamp. And Clark is so achingly glad for it despite the little silvery scars that he can see littering Jason’s pale cheeks, his lips, creeping up his forehead and disappearing beneath his curls. For an insane moment, Clark wants to tell him so - wants to sweep him up into a hug and let him know how grateful he is that he’s OK, that he’s healing. Somehow he doesn’t think that Jason would appreciate that.

“Jason,” Bruce starts, stepping towards him but not touching Jason, his hands hovering in the air between them.

Jason shakes his head. His eyes are very wide. Clark can hear the wet sound of him swallowing. “What are you talking about?”

And Clark should have been paying attention. He should have been listening. This is not how he would have wanted Jason to find out that the man who raped him is still alive.

Bruce hesitates. Clark can see him weighing his options, trying to determine how much Jason had heard and how much he should tell him. “The Joker-“

“I thought you said he was dead,” Jason snaps. There’s a horrible quiver to his voice - the edge of panic. “I thought-“

Jason makes a horrible, wet gagging sound. Then he’s stumbling backwards, one hand lifting to cover his face, the other stretched out blindly behind him. And Clark has no idea how he was expecting this to go, but it wasn’t _this_. This has all gone so wrong so quickly. 

Jason staggers out of view. Then Clark hears retching, strained and awful. He steps forward automatically but Bruce is there, blocking his way, cold fury on his face. Clark’s chest clenches hard enough to hurt.

“Just get out of here,” Bruce snarls, low and rough enough that he could be in the cowl. “Get the hell out of my house.”

Clark does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read the comics...this does not go down the same! It’s totally just because it’s an AU guys *shifty eyes*.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who’s read so far! I really appreciate all the kudos, comments, and bookmarks!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’re all staying safe out there <3 This is super late for no good reason, I’m sorry! :(
> 
> Also, there’s a quick warning for the Joker being a terrible, evil, sleaze in this chapter. There’s nothing graphic but he does say some pretty horrible stuff.

Jason doesn’t get far. Once Clark has disappeared and Bruce finally steps out into the hallway after him, he finds his son kneeling just a few steps away from the door, his arms wrapped around his stomach, vomit splattered across the hardwood floor. Bruce keeps his footsteps purposefully heavy as he moves to crouch by Jason’s side but the kid doesn’t look up. When Bruce carefully reaches out and lays an arm across Jason’s shoulders, he can feel him trembling.

“Is it true?” Jason asks. The words are so small. Jason sounds so young, so hurt. It makes Bruce’s throat feel too tight.

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, honestly. “Clark thinks so but...he could be wrong, Jay.”

“And what if he isn’t?” Jason snaps. “What if -“

He cuts off with a hard shudder. A soft little sound that’s not quite a whimper. Bruce’s arm tightens, wanting to draw his son closer but Jason resists and Bruce doesn’t push it, letting Jason pull away from him.

“What if he wants to finish what he started?”

Just the thought sends goosebumps prickling across Bruce’s skin. The idea that the Joker might hurt Jason again - that he could ever touch him again. That this time he might succeed in actually killing Jason. It’s too awful to contemplate. It’s every terrified nightmare he’s had since the day he brought Jason home - as if the one they’re living isn’t bad enough.

Of course, Clark could be wrong. This could all be one big misunderstanding. Something that had been arranged for months - well before the Joker had even thought about that warehouse in Ethiopia. Perhaps the Ethiopian authorities hadn’t had the Joker’s DNA on file. Or maybe they hadn’t even bothered to investigate the warehouse at all and the Joker is still lying in the debris of the ruins. Perhaps there wasn’t enough of a body left to identify.

Or perhaps Clark is right and the Joker _did_ somehow manage to survive. What he said is true, after all, crazier things have happened. And the worst part about it is that Bruce _doesn’t know_. He has no idea what condition the Joker was in at the end. He has no idea whether that sick freak was still alive in the rubble because he _didn’t check_.

Bruce didn’t look for the body.

It’s just another in a long laundry list of the ways Bruce has failed - as a father, as a vigilante. Another way he’s let Jason down. How could he have so carelessly put the Joker out of his mind? How could he have just _assumed_ that the monster was gone? The years of training, the endless obsession over detail, and he’d let such an important one slip through his fingers. He’d let the man who - the man who had hurt his son so badly, get away.

But it had seemed so impossible.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce manages and just like all his other apologies, it’s worthless. Just hollow words with no meaning. “I’m so sorry, Jay.”

Jason makes an odd noise, a quiet, shuddering breath that’s almost a whine. Bruce can’t stop himself from reaching out to brush Jason’s curls away from his face and this time he doesn’t pull away.

“Clark could be wrong,” Bruce tries, a little helplessly. Even though he knows, he knows Clark isn’t. Because when has the world ever given them a break? When has it ever been kind to Jason? “And if he isn’t - if the Joker is alive - I hope you know that I will _never_ let him touch you again.”

It’s more hollow words, because Bruce hadn’t been able to stop him the first time. Except...Bruce is prepared now. He knows exactly what sort of monster the Joker is and how far he’ll go to hurt Bruce and his family. And he’ll die before he lets anyone hurt Jason again.

And, most importantly, Jason relaxes at the words. The tight line of his shoulders slump and he sags forward over his knees. Bruce catches him gently by the arm, rolling him away from the little puddle of vomit until he’s lying half across Bruce’s lap, his head pillowed on his thighs.

Jason presses his cheek into the soft material of Bruce’s trousers. When Bruce rubs his knuckles over the curve of his cheekbone, the kid’s eyelashes flutter, his throat working with a thick swallow.

“You can’t promise that,” Jason whispers. There’s no anger in his voice like Bruce might expect, only resignation. Defeat. Somehow that hurts worse.

“I know you’re scared,” Bruce says and Jason makes a soft noise of protest. But Bruce doesn’t stop the rhythmic brush of his knuckles across Jason’s skin and the kid doesn’t pull away. “I know that you haven’t had much reason to trust in promises. And I know…” Bruce falters. Swallows against his own self-hatred and the heavy press of his failure. “I know I didn’t do a very good job of protecting you before but please trust me now. I will die before I let him touch you again.”

Jason makes another little protesting sound. Then he pushes himself upright, dislodging Bruce’s hand, scrubbing his own hand across his face as if to wipe away the evidence of his distress.

“Don’t,” Jason says. His voice is surprisingly steady. When he meets Bruce’s gaze, his eyes are very bright. “I don’t want that.”

Bruce manages a strained little smile. “OK, Jaylad. Whatever you say.”

It’s not as if Bruce is planning on that happening anyway. If someone needs to die to keep Jason safe, it’s going to be the Joker.

Bruce _can_ promise that.

⁂

“Is Unc- is Superman likely to stop us?”

Bruce doesn’t miss the little slip or the low tremour of anger in Dick’s voice. Dick had taken the news about the Joker almost as badly as Bruce had. He’d taken Superman’s protection of him even worse.

Bruce grunts. “He’s likely to try.”

Dick pauses halfway through pulling his Nightwing uniform on. He hasn’t applied his domino mask yet, so Bruce can see the way his eyes narrow. Bruce keeps his gaze on Dick’s face, rather than the bare skin of his son’s chest. He doesn’t want to see the network of scars, the ugly starburst where the Joker’s bullet had ripped through his chest. Right now, Bruce doesn’t think he can handle that.

“Try?” Dick jerks one of his sleeves on so roughly that Bruce is a little surprised the material doesn’t rip. “We can’t fight Superman and the Joker. Not if he’s genuinely trying to stop us.”

“He won’t be,” Bruce says, with more confidence than he feels. “Not seriously. He’s doing this out of duty. He won’t fight us on it.”

Honestly, Bruce isn’t actually sure if that’s true. Superman can be as morally rigid as Batman had been and he’s already proven that he’s willing to put that over Bruce - over _Jason_. He could choose to stop them. And if he does, Bruce and Dick might not be able to get past him.

Dick’s face shows exactly what he thinks about that. Bruce pulls the cowl over his eyes to cover his own expression and Dick huffs before applying his own mask, those bright blue eyes disappearing behind white-out lenses. He’s still disarmingly easy to read. Years of working together in the masks has made it almost second nature to read the minute changes in each other’s expressions, and Dick has always worn his heart on his sleeve. Not for the first time, Bruce is struck by the desire to tell Dick to change back into his civvies and go keep Jason company whilst Bruce deals with this alone. The thought of either of his sons being anywhere near the Joker is nauseating.

But Dick would never agree to sit out of this and, as much as Bruce might wish he could, it isn’t like he can stop him anymore. Not the way he once could. Nightwing is his own man now.

“And if he does?”

Bruce grunts. “Then you’ll have to distract him whilst I go after the Joker.”

Dick’s forehead wrinkles in displeasure but he doesn’t argue. They’ve gone over the rest of the plan - as much as they have one - already. It’s not much, with so much up in the air, and Batman hates feeling so unprepared, so out of the loop, but there’s so little they actually know for certain.

The Joker might not even be alive. This might all be one big false alarm. There’s only one way to really know.

“Alone?” Nightwing asks, but he’s already moving towards the Batmobile, apparently not worried enough to start an argument. Bruce is grateful for that - he doesn’t think he can handle a falling out with his eldest son right now.

Batman just grunts in reply. The door of the Batmobile opens smoothly and Nightwing is just sliding in when a voice stops him.

“You can’t go after the Joker alone.”

Batman startles. So does Nightwing - more obviously - bumping his head on the top of the car as he freezes half into his seat. He recovers quickly enough, pushing himself back out of the car with enviable grace and turning to face Jason.

The kid is standing by the Batcomputer, his arms crossed over his thin chest, a scowl etched into his face. Even from a distance, Bruce can see that his eyes are puffy and red, as if he’s been crying again and his skin is pale under the fluorescent lights. It makes Bruce’s heart hurt, thinking about his son crying alone upstairs, thinking about him in pain.

“What are you doing down here?” Bruce asks before he can think of something better to say. It makes Jason’s frown deepen. Makes Nightwing throw him a dark look from behind his domino mask.

“I’m allowed in the cave aren’t I?” Jason spits, bitterly. “Or are you mad because you’re trying to keep me in the dark?”

“We’re not trying to keep you in the dark,” Nightwing says immediately, always the mediator. “And B isn’t going after the Joker alone. I’ll be there.”

“But you _are_ going after the Joker.”

It isn’t a question and Bruce knows there’s no point in denying it - but it’s on the tip of his tongue regardless. He doesn’t want Jason to have to worry about them. He doesn’t want Jason to have to even think about the Joker. And he absolutely, categorically does not want his youngest son anywhere near that sick son of a bitch.

“If he’s alive,” Nightwing says before Bruce can find the right words.

“And you didn’t tell me because?”

Nightwing looks at Bruce a little desperately. There’s no right answer, Bruce knows. None that will make Jason happy, at least, because there’s not a single right thing about this situation. Batman can’t allow Jason to come with them - because just the thought of him having to face the monster who hurt him has acid burning at the base of his tongue - but denying Jason will hurt him too. Still, it isn’t as though Batman has another option.

“You’re not coming,” Batman growls and he knows he’s going about this wrong, but he doesn’t know how else to.

Jason’s whole face screws up in anger. A bright red flush blooms across his cheeks. It makes him look feverish, unwell.

“Why not? If you’re going after the Joker then Robin should be with you. I should-“

“Because I don’t want you anywhere near him. You shouldn’t ever have to face that monster again.”

“Just tell the truth!” Jason shouts. The sudden volume startles the bats above them, a susurration of noise and movement as they let their displeasure be known. “You didn’t tell me because you don’t think I can handle him. You think I’m _weak_.”

That isn’t true. The last thing Bruce thinks of Jason is that he’s _weak_ and Jason knows that. Bruce has told him a hundred times how strong he is, how brilliant he is to have survived everything the Joker inflicted on him. And yet, the kid still doesn’t believe him. Still believes his own awful self-deprecation, believes that _Bruce_ thinks that. It’s awful but Bruce doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Of course I don’t think that, Jay.” Bruce tries, pained. “I could never think that.”

“Then why act like it? Let me come with you.”

“No,” Batman snaps, too sharply, but he’s stuck on the horrible image of his son close enough for that monster to touch - of the Joker getting sick pleasure from knowing how badly he’s hurt Jason.

And Bruce doesn’t think Jason is weak but he knows that Jason can’t handle that. This is the same kid that only a short time ago had been sent into a panic so bad that he had vomited at the news that his attacker might still be alive. The same kid that still has nightmares almost every night, that has panic attacks at small triggers, who’s physical health is still not a hundred percent and might never be. None of that is Jason’s fault. None of that is something that Bruce would ever judge him for. But there’s no way that Bruce can expose his child to the cause of his pain and still call himself a good father, even if Jason might not understand that.

“No, Jay. You aren’t coming. Please, go back upstairs.”

Jason’s lips press together in a hard, black line. His hands are trembling. Bruce can’t tell if it’s anger or pain, or maybe a reaction to the psychological stress he’s under. Jason’s damaged hand tends to tremble anyway - a tick caused by nerve damage and chronic pain - but both of Jason’s tightly clenched fists are shaking now, so Bruce can’t blame it entirely on that.

“I can-“

“Jason,” Bruce interrupts, still too sharp, too aggressive. “Go upstairs. This isn’t an argument.”

For a moment, Jason just blinks at him. His eyes are very bright, his face still flushed, all the silvery little scars the Joker’s assault had left him with standing out in sharp contrast. Beside Bruce, Nightwing steps forward, reaching out as if he’s going to touch Jason despite the space between them.

“Little wi-“

“Fuck you,” Jason snaps, those bright eyes fixed on Bruce. His voice cracks and Bruce thinks his heart might crack right along with it. “I thought - fuck you!”

Then he spins on his heels and limps back up the stairs as quickly as he can manage, one hand white-knuckled around the railing, the other one scrubbing angrily at his face. Part of Bruce is screaming to go after him, to rip off his cowl and chase after his son and hold him until he stops hurting. To apologise for ever upsetting him. To promise to never leave him behind again.

The other part knows that his son won’t be safe until the Joker is dead and buried. Even if Jason can’t see it, Bruce is doing this for him. He can’t turn back from his mission now.

“Well,” Nightwing says, rocking back on his heels, “that went...badly.”

Batman shoots him a furious glare. “You think I should subject him to the man who raped him because Jason thinks he has something to prove?”

Nightwing flinches, lifting his hands in surrender. “No, Jesus, of course I don’t. I know he’s better off here. I’m just saying - that could have gone better.”

Batman only grunts, turning back to the Batmobile to hide his face despite the cowl, because he knows Dick is right and he doesn’t know how to handle that.

He’ll make it up to Jason, once the Joker is officially dead. He can fix this.

⁂

It’s only minutes after their arrival at the United Nations building that there’s the soft thud of feet touching the ground. Nightwing reacts before Batman can, turning to scowl at the intruder, his face twisted with fury into something ugly. It’s an expression that Bruce has seen before - usually aimed at him during their seemingly endless fights - but never this...intense. If Nightwing weren’t wearing his domino, Bruce knows he would recognise the shine of betrayal in his son’s eyes. The thought makes his heart thud painfully in his chest.

“Here to stop us?” Nightwing spits, voice dripping with more venom than Bruce thought he was capable of. “Come to save the poor little _child rapist_?”

Batman turns then too, in time to catch the agonised expression that flashes across Superman’s face. There’s a small burst of sympathy at that - although quickly squashed - he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Nightwing’s anger. Except this time it’s justified.

“Nightwing,” Superman tries and his voice is as pained as his expression. “That’s not...I’m not here to protect the _Joker_. God, not after what he’s done.”

It’s a different tune than the one he was singing in Bruce’s study, when he’d dropped that fucking bomb into Bruce’s slowly healing life and shattered it again. He’d seemed plenty prepared to come to the Joker’s aid then. 

“I’m here to protect _you_.”

Nightwing scoffs and Batman feels his own sound of derision catch in his throat. It’s exactly the sort of self-serving, sappy bullshit he had expected from the big blue boy scout.

“We don’t need your protection,” Batman growls. His own betrayal is a sharp sting in his chest. Clark is supposed to be his _friend_ , he had thought the man cared about him - cared about the kids who consider him an uncle - but now he’s standing between Batman and the man who raped his child. “Not if it means letting that _monster_ walk free.”

“That’s the last thing I want,” Superman says, sounding strangled.

“Then leave.”

“No.” The word is hard, the pleading tone almost entirely gone. “I can’t let you do this.”

“Let us?” Nightwing snarls. There’s the creak of his uniform flexing as his fingers curl into a fist. Batman watches Clark’s eyes flicker down at the movement, his eyebrows pinching in a pained frown. “I’d like to see you try to stop us.”

“I’m not going to fight you. I care about you - all of you. That’s why I’m telling you: Batman, Nightwing, _please_ , go home. Be with Rob-“

Rage surges through Batman’s veins like lightning, hot and burning, tinged with the acidic sting of grief. Superman cuts off with a startled sound as Batman’s fist closes around the neck of his cape. Drags him close so that he can snarl right in his face.

“Finish that sentence!” Batman roars and anyone else would have flinched but Clark just looks back at him, his gaze perfectly even. “See what fucking happens.”

“B-“

“Robin is the reason we’re here,” Nightwing says, stiffly, from somewhere behind them. Superman doesn’t look at him, though, eyes fixed firmly on the man in front of him. “The Joker shouldn’t get to walk away after what he did to him. He deserves justice.”

“Is it Justice?” Clark asks, staring intently at Bruce. “Or is it revenge?”

The fury in Bruce’s gut feels like a stone, huge and hard and heavy. It tingles like electricity right through him. Seems to make his body move without his permission. When his arm reels back, it’s as though someone else is doing it, manipulating him like a puppet on a string.

Superman rolls with the punch again, just like last time. Pain bursts across Batman’s knuckles, sharp and jagged, a shocking counterpoint to the heat surging through his chest. But they aren’t broken. When Batman flexes his fingers, the movement hurts, but they obey his command.

“It doesn’t matter,” Batman growls, and it was meant to be a shout but his voice is too wrecked, low and rough and ruined. “He _raped_ my son. My - my _child_. He’s just a kid.”

And that’s the crux of the matter. Because Clark loves the boys, Bruce knows he does, but they aren’t _his_. It wasn’t Clark’s son who was tortured almost to death, alone and terrified and praying for his father to save him, who’ll bear the scars and the pain of it for the rest of his Goddamn life. It wasn’t Clark’s son that the Joker pinned to that filthy concrete floor and _violated_ , who’s innocence was so horrifically destroyed, used for that monster’s own sick pleasure. Clark didn’t have to hold his son, his little boy, whilst he whispered that he’d rather be _dead_ than suffer the pain the Joker inflicted on him.

So Clark can talk all he wants about _caring_ , about only wanting what’s best for them, but it isn’t going to touch Bruce. Because Clark doesn’t _understand_.

“I don’t care what pointless moral justifying you have to do. I don’t care if you think you’re doing the right thing by stopping me. I’m going to put him in the fucking ground where he belongs and you aren’t going to stand in my way.”

Superman pulls a constipated face. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re too late!” And Superman actually steps back beneath the thud of Batman’s palm against his chest. “Where were you, _Superman_ , whilst my son was being raped? Huh? Why weren’t you there to help then? What fucking good are you now?”

And the words surprise even Bruce. It’s not something he has intended to say - it’s not something he was even really aware that he thought. Because, if you’d asked him, the only person Bruce would have blamed for not being there, not saving Jason, was himself. But now the words are out there and he can’t take them back and Bruce finds he doesn’t want to.

Any other time, Bruce would be horrified at the way Clark’s face crumples, at the naked pain on show. Instead, there’s only a sharp stab of vindication.

“You’re right,” Superman says, his voice soft and full of the same grief that Bruce feels like a hand around his throat. “I should have been there. I should have heard he was in trouble and been there to save him. To stop the Joker. If I had - none of this would have happened. If I’d just been _listening_...”

The words are like stones, dropped into the tension in the air. Bruce feels each of them like a stab to his chest. It’s everything he hadn’t known he needed Clark to say.

“Look, I know you feel guilty. I feel guilty every single day - that I wasn’t there to help, that I could have saved Jason so easily and I _didn’t_. But I can help now. Please, don’t do this. It won’t alleviate your guilt. It won’t make you feel any better. And it won’t help Robin either.”

“You don’t have any idea how I feel,” Bruce says stiffly, but with far less anger. That admission of guilt has eased something inside Bruce’s chest. The fury is still there, hot and sharp in his gut but...less painful.

“Maybe not. But I know -“

“B!”

The sudden grip on his arm startles Batman. For a moment, he had forgotten that Nightwing was here. When he turns, his son is so pale that Batman almost does a double take, as if all the blood has drained out of his face. His gaze is fixed behind Batman. His grip is hard enough to bruise.

Both Batman and Superman turn to follow his eyes. There’s a limo pulling up to the curb, white and ostentatious, its windows tinted too dark to see through. Something cold and heavy drops into Batman’s gut. The fingers on his arm burn like a brand.

One of the doors swing open. Someone unfolds themselves from the dark interior, stepping out onto the pavement. Batman lets out a heavy breath.

It’s the Joker.

Of course it is. Batman hadn’t honestly expected anything else. But the sight of him still feels like a punch, still hits him like a blow straight to his sternum.

It feels like seeing a ghost. A nightmare come to life. Beside him, Nightwing lets out a low sound that’s almost a growl and the Joker turns. It might as well be in slow motion, time stretching and warping strangely. Then Batman is looking into that pale, grotesque face.

Even across the space between them, Bruce can see the Joker’s eyes light up. That red mouth stretches into a horrific grin. For one awful moment, Bruce sees that same mouth latched onto his son’s throat. Sees the curve of that grin pressed against his son’s skin. It has bile pooling in his mouth, hot and acidic.

“Now isn’t this touching,” the Joker calls, raising one hand in greeting. All of Bruce’s muscles tense at the sound of his voice. Beside him, Superman shifts, as if worried Batman is about to launch himself across the space between them. 

“My old pals, Batman and Superman come to congratulate me! It’s true guys, I’m the new Iranian ambassador to the U.N.! Eat your hearts out.” 

The Joker’s grin stretches so wide it looks a little like his face might split in half. His eyes flicker, then land somewhere to Batman’s left - land on Nightwing. Bruce goes cold.

“And the first boy blunder, as I live and breathe. Is this a little present for me? Aw Batsie, you shouldn’t have.”

Something like fear laces Bruce’s throat shut. Automatically, he shifts to step in front of his son, to block him from the Joker’s cruel gaze. It was a mistake to bring Nightwing - to bring Dick. He should have known the Joker would use him against him.

The Joker isn’t dissuaded, swaggering closer. His marble-bright eyes are still fixed over Batman’s shoulder. Behind him, Bruce can feel how stiff Nightwing is. The fingers still clenched around his arm are trembling, although whether from anger or fear, Bruce can’t tell.

The Joker stops just out of reach and his voice drops low, conspiratorial. “It’s not as fun if they aren’t virgins.”

Superman makes a startled, angry noise.  
Bruce’s own throat feels too thick to loose a sound. He feels lightheaded, all of the blood caught in the pulse pounding beneath his jaw. The Joker makes his own sound, low in his throat and his eyes are hooded as he stares at Dick.

“I’m sure he’ll be tight, but it’s the noises they make, you know. There’s nothing quite like a little virgin under you. Your Robin -“

He cuts off with a manic giggle, dancing back as Batman lunges at him with a snarl. Someone grabs for Bruce - Nightwing or Superman, in his sudden rage he can’t tell. For a moment, Batman strains against their hold. All he can think about is the Joker hurting his son, stealing that last shred of innocence that Jason had somehow managed to cling to despite his years on the streets, destroying his last chance for a semi-normal childhood. All he can think about is the Joker doing the same to Dick - hurting him so terribly, tearing apart both of Bruce’s sons and Bruce not being able to do a Goddamn thing about it.

“Hey now!” The Joker says, spreading his hands. “Don’t worry Batsie, I’m sure your birdie and I can work something out! Can’t we baby?”

The word _baby_ drips like ice water down Bruce’s spine. His stomach turns so violently that for a moment he thinks he might be sick.

“Don’t fucking talk to him,” is what surges up his throat and spills out of his mouth, rough and wrecked. “Don’t fucking _look_ at him.”

He lunges against the restraining hands. The Joker doesn’t flinch, just stares back, eyes bright with sick glee.

“I’ll kill you,” Batman roars. “If you even think about him, I’ll kill you!”

The Joker just laughs, a high, hysterical sound. It’s the same noise he had made before Batman had crushed his ribs beneath his fist. It’s the same noise Jason would have heard, lying on that concrete floor.

“Go on then,” the Joker goads. “I won’t stop you, Batsie. If you want to start a war, just go ahead.”

“Batman!” Clark’s voice, low and strained in his ear. “He’s right. This could start a war. I know you’re angry but please, don’t do this. Don’t let him win.”

For a long moment, Batman keeps struggling. There’s no reason in his head - no thought - just sick, burning anger. Right now, Bruce doesn’t care if he brings the whole world down with him, if it means taking the Joker out. But Superman doesn’t let him go and Batman could fight him - might even win - if he was thinking clearly, if he had a strategy. But he isn’t, he doesn’t, and Nightwing isn’t trying to help. He’s just standing there, gripping Batman’s arm so tightly that it might bruise, even through the armour.

Then: “He’s right, B. Now isn’t the time. We have an audience.”

And Batman goes limp in their hold. Just stands there as the Joker giggles delightedly before stepping around the little cluster of three, close enough that Batman can almost smell him.

“Don’t worry, Bigman,” the Joker whispers, smiling when Batman snarls back at him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

⁂

The Joker’s speech goes about as well as anyone had expected - which is to say, not very well at all. It’s only down to Superman’s quick action that anyone makes it out of the building alive and the Joker manages to escape in the chaos. Batman is furious, sickened by the Joker’s callous disregard for all of those innocent lives. He’s also darkly pleased in a way he knows he shouldn’t be. The Joker has shown his hand. He’s free game now.

Batman and Nightwing give chase.

The Joker has a head-start on them, but Batman and Nightwing are quicker. Ahead of them, the Joker is laughing, a frantic, breathless sound, so high pitched it’s almost a scream. He keeps laughing, even as a well placed Batarang sends him to the ground. Even as Nightwing circles around to block off his escape route, a solid black and blue presence, escrima sticks drawn, face hard and pitiless. Even as Batman looms behind him, radiating fury and the promise of pain.

The Joker recovers surprisingly quickly, rolling onto his knees as Batman surges towards him, reaching into his jacket to pull out his gun and training it with deadly accuracy at Nightwing’s head.

That pulls Batman up short. Most likely, Nightwing would be able to get out of the way. Most likely Batman would be able to take the Joker down before he even takes the shot, but Bruce can’t risk it. Not when it’s his son on the other end of the weapon. Not when this is _the Joker_ and all Bruce can see is bloodied pearls.

“Not yet, Batsie,” the Joker pants, pushing himself to his feet one-handed. Nightwing shifts his weight a little but the gun stays trained unerringly on him. Not that Nightwing seems particularly concerned, not the way Bruce is, his chest compressed beneath a tight iron band of anger and fear.

“I haven’t finished my fun yet. I enjoyed getting to know your little birdy better.” He grins as Nightwing growls and Batman clenches his fingers tight enough that his knuckles pop. Despite the gun aimed at Dick’s face, it’s Batman that the Joker’s gaze is fixed on, cruel eyes glittering with delight. “I think it’s only fair if I take some time with the other one. Come on, B, you can be honest with me - little Robin was a virgin, but you’ve had a go at Big Bird here, right?”

Bruce’s stomach does a strange flip. He has to clench his teeth hard against the sudden urge to puke his guts up.

“It’s OK, I don’t mind sloppy seconds.”

Nightwing moves before Batman can, a sudden streak of motion. And Bruce has less than a second to worry about the gun in the villain’s hand before one of Nightwing’s escrima sticks snaps the Joker’s arm up, the other sliding under the Joker’s chin and jerking his head back in a cruel arch, cutting off any more words.

“Shut up,” Dick snarls, angrier than Bruce thinks he’s ever heard him. “Just shut the fuck up, you evil fucking freak.”

The Joker laughs breathlessly. There’s something manic in his eyes. He’s still smiling, despite clearly having lost any leverage he had. 

“Oh sweetheart,” he breathes. “If you were that eager, you only had to tell me.” 

Then he reaches up to close one gloved hand around Nightwing’s wrist where it’s pressed close to his throat.

Nightwing’s whole body seizes, as if he’s been electrocuted. Through the white lenses of his domino, Bruce can’t see his eyes, but he imagines them going wide, the little pinprick of his pupils. And maybe he _has_ been electrocuted, because his arms constrict around the Joker in some awful parody of an embrace before they crash to the floor together with a sickening thud.

For a moment, Batman just stands there, staring in shock. Then the Joker twists against Dick, shifting to straddle his son’s hips and Bruce’s whole world goes red.

Batman lunges. All he can think about is getting that monster away from his son. All he can think about is finding the Joker leaning over Jason in almost the same way - all the terrible things he had done to him, all the things he could do to Dick too. The Joker lands hard beneath him. Bruce feels the hot puff of breath against his face as he knocks the air from the other man’s lungs, hears the strangled, ragged inhale. His hands move almost independently from his brain, closing around that thin neck hard enough to cut off the desperate gasp for air. Pressing bruises into the white flesh that will match the black finger prints the Joker had left on Jason.

The Joker writhes underneath him, but he’s still smiling, those wet, red lips curved in an awful grin, even as they part soundlessly around nothing. Batman presses harder. There’ll be no broken bones this time, no miraculous recovery. The Joker is never going to hurt anyone ever again.

“Stop!”

The voice spears right through Batman, shock and horror pouring like ice water down his spine. His hands loosen automatically as he turns towards the only voice that could actually make him listen in that moment.

Because it’s Jason.

It’s Jason standing there in his Robin uniform, breathing like he’s just run a marathon, trembling from head to toe, the white lenses of his domino fixed on the figure lying underneath Bruce. It’s Jason who had screamed for Bruce to stop. Somehow, it’s Jason.

“Robin,” Nightwing gasps from somewhere to Batman’s right. There’s panic in his voice but Batman can’t turn to look at him, not when Jason’s standing _right there_ and he _shouldn’t be_. “What are you doing here? Go home!”

“No,” Jason snaps and the word is wet and weak, terrified, but Jason doesn’t stop. Bruce’s brave, beautiful boy. “No. Batman, please, you have to stop. Don’t do this. Not for me.”

And Bruce is drawing a blank, because this isn’t how this was supposed to go. Jason isn’t supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be safe at home, with Alfred, angry at Bruce - sure - but out of harm's way. And the Joker is supposed to be dying like the bug he is. Only -

“Oh,” the Joker breathes and Batman turns, feeling strangely numb, as if everything is underwater, as if time has slowed right down to a crawl. “Oh, this is perfect.”

Batman stares down at the barrel of the gun. For a moment he doesn’t recognise it, doesn’t know how it got there. Then the Joker smiles, a slash of blood across his white face.

“I win.”

The gun goes off with an Earth-shattering bang.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I did not mean to leave you guys hanging on that cliffhanger for quite so long - I hope you can all forgive me! I think knowing this was the final chapter made me super critical of it and I'm still not sure I'm entirely happy with it but I just can't look at it anymore lol!
> 
> Thank you so much to every single person who's read this whole thing - it's the longest continual piece I've ever written! And especially thank you to everyone who's left kudos, bookmarked, and commented on this! I know it's not good to rely on validation, but you all make writing so much easier!
> 
> I really hope you like this final chapter. Stay safe out there guys :)

Jason wishes he wasn’t limping as he struggles up the stairs. He wishes he wasn’t crying either but he can’t stop the hot sting of tears prickling behind his eyes, no matter how hard he scrubs at them, and his hip is sending awful flashes of pain straight through him every time he shuffles his leg forward.

Maybe that’s just in his head though. It’s been a constant, throbbing pain ever since he had heard that - heard that _he_ might not be dead. And Jason isn’t entirely sure why. He’d thought that he was - well, not dealing with it exactly, but better. Which is stupid, maybe, because he knows that one good conversation with Bruce isn’t going to fix his problems. He still has nightmares, still has flashbacks. But he’d felt better. Those bad things had felt less oppressive. Knowing that Bruce knows how he feels, that he doesn’t hate him for it, had lifted a weight Jason hadn’t even known was pressing down on his shoulders.

Then he’d heard that the Joker might still be alive.

It had been a cold, sharp shock, hearing those words, an electric tingle straight through his body. The nausea had been strong and sudden, surging up his throat before he had even really had the chance to digest how he felt about it.

Honestly, he still isn’t entirely sure. 

Bad. He knows that much. Terrified. Small and fucked up and frightened. The knowledge feels like a wound. Like an itch he can’t scratch, prickling at the back of his neck.

But there’s also...a strange feeling of relief. It’s not that Jason wants the Joker to be alive. It’s not that he thinks the Joker doesn’t deserve to be rotting in the ground for what he did to him. It’s just...he doesn’t want _Bruce_ to be the one to kill him. Not for this. Not for _Jason_. As long as Jason has known him, Batman has stuck rigidly to his moral code. It’s important to him for a hundred different reasons and Jason has pushed against it in the past - tested the limits of what Batman will tolerate - but he’s always known that Bruce wouldn’t back down. It’s a solid foundation in their relationship, their life.

The idea that Batman would give that up for him is terrifying.

It’s part of the reason why Jason had followed them down to the cave in the first place. The last thing Jason wants is to have to face the Joker again, but he can’t let Bruce and Dick go alone. He needs to be there to stop Batman crossing a line he can’t uncross. He needs to protect him.

Only, Bruce doesn’t want his protection. To Bruce, Jason is just another chink in his armour, another weakness that he could do without.

Jason slams the door to his room, even though Batman and Nightwing are both certainly long gone and Alfred has done nothing to deserve his ire. Then he throws himself onto his bed, pulling the covers up over himself and creating a quiet, dark space for him to lose it in.

Now that he’s alone, he lets the tears come thick and fast. It’s not like Jason can stop them, anyway. He can’t stop the ragged little sobs that accompany them either. Can’t stop the anxiety that’s crawling through his chest, getting bigger and sharper with every passing second. Jason presses his hands hard over his face, ignoring the sparks of pain that come with applying pressure to his damaged hand and tries to force himself to stop thinking, to stop worrying. Bruce had made it clear that he didn’t want Jason. There’s no point in stressing out about it now.

Except he can’t stop the fear. Because he can’t - he can’t let them go after the Joker alone can he? Sure, Dick is there, but Jason isn’t stupid - he knows that Bruce won’t be thinking straight. Knows that Dick probably won’t be either. There’s only two likely outcomes if he lets them go alone: either the Joker is killed, or they are. Both options twist something small and frightened in Jason’s stomach.

Batman needs his Robin.

Only, Bruce doesn’t want Robin and maybe Bruce is right. Maybe Jason _can’t_ handle facing the Joker again, because just the thought has him shaking, makes his stomach feel somehow hollow and heavy at the same time. Even though Batman will be there - Nightwing and Superman too, probably. Even though he knows the Joker won’t be able to hurt him.

Jason hates this. He hates how pathetic he is now. Hates the fact that he’s hiding under the covers, hot tears still drying on his cheeks, terrified at just the prospect of meeting a villain that normally would barely have worried him. Before all this happened - before he got benched, before Ethiopia, before the _Joker_ , there would have been no doubt that Robin would be with Batman. No one would have thought he was too frightened, too _weak_ for a fight.

A knock at his bedroom door startles Jason out of the weird spiral of fear and self-loathing he’s been sinking into. 

“Master Jason?” It’s Alfred’s voice, soft from the other side of the door. 

For some reason, Jason’s throat swells around his answer. He can’t even squeeze out an acknowledgement.

Alfred seems to understand anyway. “I have made some hot cocoa, if you care to join me in the kitchen?”

Jason’s chest hurts. If it had been anyone else, Jason would have bristled at the coddling. Coming from Alfred though, it feels different - somehow better but somehow, also, worse. Jason makes an odd, strangled noise. The door handle twitches, as if Alfred had made to open it, then thought better of it. There’s a moment of silence, then the soft sound of footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

Jason should follow him. He should go down to the kitchen and have a sweet, warm mug of Alfred’s famous hot cocoa and let the butler settle the awful, jittery anxiety crawling beneath his skin. He shouldn’t use this opportunity to sneak down to the cave, put on his uniform, and follow Batman. He _shouldn’t_.

But he has to. There’s no way Jason can sit at home and worry himself out of his skin whilst his dad goes up against the Joker. There’s no way he can sip hot cocoa in peace whilst anything could be happening to his family.

Getting out of bed feels like a momentous effort but somehow Jason manages it. His hip is aching like it’s still shattered under his skin and normally Jason would accept defeat and use the cane but he can’t do that now. Not if he’s going to go out as Robin. Robin can’t afford that weakness.

It does make getting back down to the cave a slow, painful process. Even though Jason knows that Alfred is in the kitchen, his heart is pounding by the time he makes it to the secret entrance, sure that at any moment the butler is going to appear out of nowhere to stop him.

He doesn’t. And Jason can’t deny that there’s a little part of him that’s disappointed, a small, aching part of him that wants the excuse to not have to go through with this.

By the time he finally makes it down to where the uniforms are stashed, his pulse is a roar in his ears, his breath coming quick enough that Jason feels a little light-headed. He recognises the warning signs of an impending panic attack. Has to stop and press his hands hard over his eyes again to try to calm down enough to continue.

All he has to do is get his Robin costume on. One painful thing at a time. That’s all he has to do.

It isn’t _the_ costume. Jason has no idea what actually happened to that one - whether it even survived the encounter or whether Bruce destroyed it later. Of course, there’s always the chance that Bruce has kept it, squirrelled it away somewhere. Bruce is self-punishing enough to keep it around as a reminder but the thought has acid burning at the base of Jason’s throat so he pushes it aside. It’s not important right now. Jason has bigger things to worry about.

Like getting into his costume without triggering the panic attack that’s been circling dangerously ever since his argument with Batman.

It’s stupid, because it’s his own hands undressing him, but Jason can’t help the uncomfortable lurch of his stomach as he pulls his sweats down. He has to shut his eyes to avoid the sight of his own body - all that pale flesh pockmarked with scars. It doesn’t look like him, not really, and the disconnect always has his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Pulling the leggings on is somehow even worse because all he can think about is how easily they had torn apart beneath the Joker’s hands, how little protection they had actually offered him. The rip of tearing fabric roars in his ears. He feels exposed, vulnerable, even though the leggings leave none of his skin bare. Without his tunic on it feels as though every curve of him is on show.

Jason powers through it. Tugs his shirt off and pulls the tunic on with brisk efficiency. The leggings were the worst part, now that’s over with he feels a little steadier. Not that that stops his hands from shaking as he fixes his gloves in place. The mask is the only part that doesn’t freak him out. It’s one of the few things the Joker hadn’t stripped him of. He hadn’t cared about Robin’s true identity. All he’d been bothered about was making Robin _hurt_.

By the time Robin is fully clothed, he’s a sweating, trembling mess. The costume feels too tight, like it’s clinging to his skin, compressing his ribs flat. Jason can’t tell if it’s psychological or if he’s that out of shape. Maybe it doesn’t matter because it makes it hard to breathe either way.

Or maybe that’s just the anticipation of what’s to come because Jason can’t avoid it now. He’s going to have to face the Joker.

⁂

There’s chaos by the time Robin finally makes it to the U.N. building. People on the streets, shouting, screaming. It’s difficult to make out exactly what happened - the only thing Robin can really tell is that the Joker was involved and that he clearly isn’t here anymore. For a moment, Robin’s heart sinks. He might be too late.

Then he hears it, high and hysterical, the Joker’s laugh.

Ice spears straight through Jason. His stomach drops so violently that for a moment he’s sure he’ll be sick. It’s as though someone has shot adrenaline right into the muscle of his heart, sending it rocketing against his chest. It has his knees buckling. He staggers, tries to catch himself before he plummets to the pavement. Sweat breaks out across his forehead and his palms. It’s the same sound he had heard as...he had heard in that warehouse.

Suddenly, Jason can’t do this. All that previously abstract fear slams into him like a brick wall, sudden and real. It’s one thing knowing the Joker is alive - it’s an entirely different thing _knowing_. 

Then the laugh cuts off and somehow that’s worse, because Jason knows that Batman and Nightwing have caught up to him and a different kind of fear sparks to life in his belly. It unfreezes him. His legs are like jelly, but they move. Take him, stumbling, in the direction the laugh had come from.

He has to protect them. It’s his fault they’re out here in the first place rather than back in the manor, safe. If Batman - if he kills the Joker it’ll be _Jason’s_ fault. This is all his fault.

The thought keeps him moving, even as every part of him screams to turn around. Keeps him stumbling towards the sudden absence of sound. By the time he makes it to the confrontation he’s panting like he’s run a marathon and sweating like it too, even without seeing the Joker.

The sight that greets him, though, has his stomach dropping right out of his ass. Because the first thing his eyes catch on is the Joker. And it’s not as though Jason wasn’t expecting it, but it still hits him like a brick wall - knocks the breath right out of him. Worse, the Joker is straddling a figure prone on the ground. Straddling _Nightwing_ , Dick, Jason’s big brother, those thin legs slung over Dick’s hips. There’s a gun clasped in one white-gloved hand but somehow that feels secondary. It’s somehow a lesser threat than the Joker’s hips pressed against Dick, the sick grin on his face.

Jason’s whole world whites out. There’s an awful tinnitus ring in his ears. Because he remembers the feel of those hips against him. Remembers the hard press of the Joker’s erection, the choking, breathless fear as it had rubbed over the back of his thigh, even when his leggings had still been mostly whole. He remembers the sick, stomach churning anticipation. How small he had felt, caged beneath the Joker. If Dick is feeling even a fraction of that fear now…

Except it’s different now. Because Dick isn’t Jason - he isn’t weak enough to let the Joker hurt him the way Jason had, not _pathetic_ enough to let him touch him. And besides, Batman is here. Dick isn’t alone. All Jason had been able to do was hope and pray and beg for someone who couldn’t even hear him. But this time Bruce is _right here_.

And he’s moving, a dark shadow streaking towards the figures on the ground. A flash of motion. Then the Joker is gone, no longer leaning over Jason’s brother. Instead Batman is on top of him, pressing him into the ground, hands wrapped tight around the Joker’s thin throat. And last time - last time Jason had been too out of it to really know what was going on. One moment the Joker had been there and then he was gone. 

Now, it feels like the only thing Jason _can_ see. Now he’s faced with the full brunt of Bruce’s fury and it’s _terrifying_.

“Stop!”

The word bursts out of him before he can think better of it. Before he can think at all. It’s louder than Jason would have thought, shrill and desperate. Batman stiffens at the sound of it. Jason can see his hands loosen. Sees the ragged breath the Joker takes as his throat is released.

“Robin,” Nightwing gasps and he’s still sprawled on the floor where the Joker had him pinned, although he’s pushing himself upright. “What are you doing here? Go home!”

“No,” Jason manages. Because Batman’s hands might have loosened, but they’re still circled around the Joker’s neck. If Jason doesn’t stop him, Batman will do something he can never come back from. “No. Batman, please, you have to stop. Don’t do this. Not for me.”

Everything happens very quickly after that. 

“Oh,” the Joker breathes and the gun is in his hand still, glinting silver against the white of his glove and Batman is turning slowly - so slowly, too slowly - towards him and the warning catches in Jason’s chest and - “Oh this is perfect. I win.”

Batman’s arm jerks up. There’s a crack that seems to rent the air in two. A scream tears it’s way out of Jason’s throat but it’s drowned out by the explosion of the gun. The whole world seems to shake. Batman roars, slamming the Joker’s arm into the earth, crashing his fist against him in a brutal punch. The Joker laughs, high and shrill. Nightwing, still struggling to his feet, crumples to the ground like a puppet with his strings cut and-

Everything goes still and quiet. Distantly, Jason is aware that he’s still screaming, but the noise doesn’t seem to reach him. It’s like Jason has been plunged into cold water. The world slides past like liquid and Nightwing is falling in slow motion, somehow still graceful, and Jason is screaming loud enough to tear his throat in two but he doesn’t care, can barely even hear it because Nightwing’s hit. He’s _hit_.

The world comes crashing back in around Jason the moment Nightwing hits the floor. He moves without any conscious input from his brain, staggering towards the limp figure of his brother where he’s sprawled on the ground. If Dick is...no he can’t be, not now, not because of Jason. This can’t be happening. This is a dream. A nightmare. Batman would never allow this.

Only, Dick doesn’t get back up. When Jason crashes to his knees beside him, ignoring the slash of pain in his stupid hip, Dick barely even moves. Jason grabs for him then, stupidly, thoughtlessly, dragging him up into Jason’s lap, his hands fluttering uselessly like frantic birds. There’s blood on Jason’s gloves. He can’t tell where it’s coming from. He can’t _think_ beyond the awful, breathless panic because Dick is _hurt_ and it’s all Jason’s fault.

“N,” he gasps and his voice sounds thick and awful even to his own ears. “N, shit, where - where -”

“Nightwing!” And then Batman’s there, crouching beside them, hands sure and steady as they cup Nightwing’s shoulder, finding the wound with unerring efficiency. Nightwing groans, his head turning in Jason’s lap, eyelashes fluttering.

“B,” Jason manages, gasping. He barely has enough air to squeeze the word out. His chest is too tight to breathe, crushing his lungs flat. Nightwing is hurt. Nightwing is _hurt_ and Batman needs to make it better.

“It’s OK,” Batman murmurs. He lifts one hand to push Nightwing’s bangs off his forehead. Leaves a smear of blood behind. “You’re OK, Nightwing. Come on. Open your eyes.”

Nightwing groans again. But this time his eyes slit open, bright blue appearing beneath his lashes. “Batman?” he manages, voice tight with pain.

Relief crashes through Jason so strongly he feels dizzy. If Nightwing can talk, that means he’s OK. Or, not OK maybe, but alive. Conscious. Jason hadn’t - Jason hadn’t gotten him _killed_.

“I’m here,” Batman says, in the same soft voice he uses with Jason, when he’s talking him through a panic attack. His dad voice, as Jason has taken to calling it in the privacy of his own head. “I’m here. You’re OK. You have a shoulder wound, we need to keep pressure on it.”

Dick seems to wake up a little at that. He blinks again. Rocks his head against Jason’s legs as he looks between them. Frowns.

“The Joker?” he asks.

For a moment, the question doesn’t register in Jason’s brain. Because why would they care about anyone but Dick? What could be more important than Jason’s brother, bleeding out right in front of them, blood slick and red against the dark weave of his suit. For a moment, the Joker doesn’t even exist.

Then the words click into place in his brain and Jason goes cold. He didn’t see what happened to the Joker. He almost doesn’t want to know. If Bruce-

“He got away,” Batman says, gruffly. There’s a sharp edge to the words that Jason can’t decipher. “You were the priority. I-“

“What the hell?” Dick snaps, his voice strained and tight with pain but much more alert. He shifts, as if he’s going to sit up, but Batman’s hand on his shoulder - on the _gunshot wound_ \- God - holds him still. “Go after him! I’m fine. God, you can’t let him get away.”

“Nightwing-“

“”Go, B! Before he gets too far away.”

“No,” Jason manages. Because the thought of Bruce chasing the Joker alone - confronting him alone - churns his already roiling stomach. And the thought of him leaving Nightwing here, when they don’t even really know how badly he’s hurt, churns it worse. “No, B, Nightwing needs you _please_.”

“Robin,” Nightwing snaps, an edge of command in his voice that shouldn’t be there, considering he’s still lying bleeding in Jason’s lap. “We can’t let the Joker go free. B needs to go after him.”

Jason shakes his head, a little desperately. Batman looks between them, considering, and Jason knows, with a sharp pang, that he’s already made up his mind. That nothing Jason can say will change it.

“Keep pressure on the wound,” Batman tells him, gripping Jason’s wrist in a blood-soaked fist, pressing his palm over Nightwing’s shoulder. Jason can feel the hot pump of blood through his glove. Watches Nightwing’s teeth grit in pain as he presses over the wound.

“Batman,” Jason tries, one final time, as Batman straightens from his crouch. “Please, don’t. _Please_.”

Only, his pleas are about as useless here as they had been with the Joker. Jason feels that same sort of helpless terror in his throat. That same hollow resignation in his gut - knowing that no matter what he says, no matter how desperate he sounds, or how fervently he begs, he isn’t going to change the outcome. That this is going to happen whether he wants it or not. And it’s utterly different now, of course, because he isn’t begging for the same thing. There’s no Joker crushing him into the ground. No hard press of hips against his, or awful, wandering hands, or hot breath against his ear. It isn't remotely similar. But Jason feels just as small and helpless all the same.

Bile licks up the back of his throat. He stares hard at where his hands press against Nightwing’s suit, dark blood bubbling up between his fingers, so he won’t have to watch Batman leave. It doesn’t make him feel much better.

A hand closes around his wrist and Jason startles. “He’ll be OK Little Wing. You don’t need to worry about B.”

“Shut up,” Jason snarls. “Why did you do that?” He presses harder against Nightwing’s shoulder, a little vindictively, but Dick doesn’t even wince. There are tears prickling behind Jason’s eyes. He has to blink furiously to keep them from falling. “You can’t - you can’t want him to kill the Joker. Not really.”

Dick’s hand is still tight around Jason’s wrist. His fingers flex almost painfully. When Jason glances up at his face, it’s tight with anger and pain. There’s a splash of blood at the corner of his jaw. Despite knowing it’s _Dick’s_ blood, Jason can’t help but think it makes him look...dangerous. Frightening.

“Why not?” And his voice is something dangerous too, a low, angry rumble. “What he did to you, Robin...if I could have, _I_ would have killed him.”

It scares Jason to hear that - to hear the anger in Dick’s voice, the conviction. And he knows that the anger is _for_ him, not aimed at him, but that doesn’t stop the frightened little child inside him cowering away from such an overt show of fury. It’s why, Jason thinks, he came all this way to stop Batman from making this mistake. Because, inside, Jason is still the terrified little kid hiding in the closet as Willis drunkenly trashes their apartment. Something small and hollow in him quails at the thought that Bruce and Dick could be anything like him - even in this.

“You don’t mean that. You’re angry and so is B. He’ll regret -”

“No he won’t,” Nightwing snaps, cutting him off. “You’re his _son_ , Robin. How could he ever regret killing the man who raped you?”

Despite everything - despite all the time Jason has had to process it, all the endless sappy talks with Bruce, the even sappier tears and hugs - Jason still flinches at the word, at the stark reminder of what happened. He feels his shoulders hunch, his mouth twisting into a scowl. He tastes acid on his tongue and has to swallow thickly against it.

“No. I won’t let him. I have to stop him.”

Even though Batman and the Joker had such an enormous head start, even though Jason’s hip is _throbbing_ from all the running and Jason’s impromptu date with the ground and Jason might never even catch up to them, he has to _try_. He won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t try.

The wound in Nightwing’s shoulder is bleeding sluggishly under Jason’s hand. It’s bad - because of course it is, it’s a _gunshot wound_ \- but it won’t kill Dick. Jason is confident about that. He twists his own arm out of his brother’s grip, reversing the hold to pull Dick’s hand up to his shoulder and press his palm there, the same way Batman had done to him.

“Hold the pressure,” Jason tells him, although Nightwing likely doesn’t need reminding. He hates the idea of leaving his brother here, hurt and vulnerable, but Nightwing can look after himself, and Jason doesn’t see that he has much of a choice. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I have to stop him, N. I _have_ to.”

Nightwing just blinks at him but Jason doesn’t think it’s because he’s slipping under again, so he stands, sliding Dick carefully off his lap, ignoring Dick’s soft sound of protest. Then he turns and limps away as quickly as he can before Nightwing can try to stop him.

It’s pointless. Jason already knows that, even as he struggles after Batman as quickly as he can. There’s no way Batman hasn’t caught up to the Joker already and if he has, it’s not likely the Joker is still alive. But if there’s a chance that Jason can stop his dad from making this monumental mistake - any chance - he has to take it.

Jason hears the helicopter before he sees it, the whir of the blades loud enough to drown almost everything else out. It must be close, because it’s deafening, reverberating right through Jason’s skull, rattling him right down to his bones. And then he sees it, lumbering into the sky like some fat black bug. From where he’s standing, Jason is close enough to catch a glimpse of two figures moving against the backdrop of pale blue sky. Close enough to hear the rat-tat-tat of gunfire, see the flash of ricocheting bullets against the metal body of the helicopter. Firing at whoever is inside.

And for the third time in just a few short hours, Jason’s world stops spinning. Because it’s Batman they’re firing at. It’s Batman - Bruce, _dad_ , Jason’s dad - who’s still in the helicopter when it starts to list to the side. Who’s still in the helicopter when it starts to lose altitude, dropping like a stone towards the glass-still water of the harbour.

If Jason had any breath left in his body, he’d scream again. Only, his lungs are pressed flat. All he can manage is a frantic, strangled exhale. A rush of breath that leaves him like he’s been punched in the gut. All he can think about is Nightwing lying behind him, bleeding out. Is Batman crashing to the earth in a wreckage of screeching metal and twisted limbs. Is the cold water closing around him and stoppering his throat and Jason can’t breath, he can’t _breathe_. He’s killed Nightwing. He’s killed _Batman_. He’s ruined the little family he’s managed to cling to, torn them apart and ripped them to shreds all because he’s too _weak_ , too pathetic to fight off some stupid, gimmicky villain and -

There’s a rush of air, whipping Jason’s cape around him. Jason gasps, choking on nothing. His stupid, weak hip can’t hold him up any longer and Jason falls to the ground and it hurts, it _hurts_ and Batman is in the water and Nightwing is bleeding out and they’re all going to die here and Jason can’t _breathe_.

Something dark and heavy drops over him. For a wild moment, Jason thinks he might have passed out or died or _something_ to explain the sudden darkness - the way the world has gone quiet and muffled and maybe Jason really has asphyxiated on nothing and maybe this is the end.

Then strong arms wrap around him. A hand presses hard against his chest, trying to force his heaving ribs into some sort of rhythm and there’s a low voice in his ear: “Breathe, Robin. That’s it, slow breaths.”

It’s Bruce’s voice but it’s too late. This time, the blackness edging at the corners of Jason’s vision isn’t Batman’s cape dropping over him. Jason’s head spins, he tries to gasp out Bruce’s name. Then the whole world goes black.

⁂

“I’m sorry.”

The words are soft but full of feeling. Something squirms in Jason’s stomach at the weight of them. The heavy drop of them into the quiet of the room.

Jason has been avoiding both Bruce and Dick since they got back to the manor. Superman had arrived in time to drag Batman from the water and carry all three of them back to the Batcave before Nightwing could finish bleeding out. Then, at Batman’s insistence, he’d gone back to search the harbour for the Joker - or, more likely - the Joker’s body.

He hadn’t found it.

Jason had been furious - is still furious - at how easily Bruce had steamrolled over all his objections. Furious at how willing he had been to throw away his life - and Nightwing’s too - over his own desperate need for revenge. When they had gotten back to the Batcave, Jason had allowed Alfred to give him a cursory once-over before the butler had been distracted by the more pressing need of Dick, bleeding all over his examination table, and then he’d retreated to his room and stayed there.

Alfred had brought food up to him but Jason had barely had the stomach to eat anything. He hadn’t slept either. All he could think about was the Joker - the fact that no one really knew what had happened to him, the fact that maybe he could come back and finish what he started, the shrill sound of his laugh. All he could think about was how useless his pleas had been with both the Joker and with Batman. How he could have screamed _no_ until his throat bled and neither of them would have listened to him. The thought had left him cold. He’d pressed his fingers against his skin hard enough to bruise, to try to block out the creeping sensation of hands on his flesh. He’d hummed tunelessly, desperately, to try to block out the echoing sound of the Joker’s panting breaths in his ear, the sharp, staccato sounds of his pleasure.

It hadn’t particularly worked.

He hasn’t been down to breakfast this morning, either, too nauseous and exhausted. Bruce had given him space last night, and Jason appreciated that, really, but it’s not a surprise that he’s here now. Bruce was never going to let him stew for long.

“Yeah?” Jason asks, tiredly. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Bruce?”

Bruce laughs at that. It’s a strained little sound, as if his throat is too tight for it but it eases a little of the tension in the room. “Ok, I get it. Is it OK for me to come in?”

Jason shrugs. He’s lying on his side, the blankets pulled all the way up under his eyes, facing away from the door, so he can’t see Bruce. But he hears the soft tread of his father’s footsteps as he makes his way towards him. Feels the dip of his mattress as Bruce perches on the edge of his bed.

“Hey,” Bruce says, softly. A hand brushes through Jason’s curls and, despite everything, Jason feels himself relaxing at the familiar touch. Something tight and painful in his gut eases a little to have his dad there with him. “I really am sorry, Jay. I’m so sorry that we couldn’t find him.”

Just like that, the relaxation is gone as soon as it had come. Jason feels himself tense, his shoulders bunching up around his ears, a scowl twisting his face even though Bruce can’t see his expression. Of course that’s what Bruce would think he needs to apologise for - the fact that the Joker had gotten away _again_. Of course that’s what he’s worried about.

And, yeah, Jason can’t pretend that he isn’t worried about that either. It’s not as though the thought of that man being out there somewhere, alive and well and able to hurt people, doesn’t make Jason’s heart throb painfully in his chest. Yeah, the knowledge that the Joker could hurt him again, could hurt _anyone_ the awful, terrible, life-changing way Jason was hurt, makes him feel sick to his stomach. But that’s not what he’s angry at _Bruce_ for. That’s not why he wants an apology and it just makes him angrier that Bruce doesn’t get that.

“That’s not why I’m upset,” he grits out, shaking his head a little to dislodge Bruce’s palm. “That’s not - if you don’t get it, then you can just fuck off.”

He can practically feel Bruce’s helpless confusion. The hand he’d shrugged off hovers, as if Bruce wants to touch him again but doesn’t want to be rejected.

“OK. I’m sorry, Jaylad. Why don’t you tell me why you are upset?”

Jason sits up then, a sharp, jerky movement, so he can see Bruce’s face as he yells at him. “I’m upset that you went after him! You - you nearly died, dad. _Dick_ nearly died and if you had it would have been -” there are tears, burning hot behind Jason’s eyes, welling over his lashes and spilling down his cheeks. He chokes, wetly. “- it would have been my fault! It was all my fucking fault.”

“No it wasn’t,” Bruce says, quickly. He reaches for Jason again and when he doesn’t shake him off this time, pulls him gently into a hug. Despite his anger, Jason lets his head rest against Bruce’s broad chest, listening to the rumble of his words through his ribs. “None of this was your fault Jason. None of it. It’s mine. I should have done better.”

“You should have listened to me,” Jason corrects him. “Why couldn’t you just listen? I didn’t _want_ you to go after him. Please dad, I don’t want you to kill him. Not for me.”

Bruce’s arms tighten until Jason feels a little choked. Or maybe that’s the tears still streaming hotly over his face, clogging up his throat. “Why not? What he did to you...he _raped_ you, Jay. I can’t - I can’t just forget that. I can’t forget that he hurt you.”

Familiar embarrassment blooms in Jason’s chest. He hates the way that word sounds in Bruce’s mouth. Hates that it’s in relation to _him_. Hates that it still makes him feel small and weak and filthy. 

That just makes him angrier, more vindictive. “Yeah, he hurt _me_ , not you. ” Then, quieter, because even angry, he knows it will hurt Bruce, but he can’t seem to stop the words from spilling out: “ _He_ didn’t listen to me either. I - I begged and yelled and...and he didn’t care. He did whatever he wanted. Just like you did.”

Bruce makes a soft, devastated sound. It makes Jason feel sick to hear it.

“I don’t want you to kill anyone because of me. I don’t...you scared me. It’s scary to think of you as a killer. I hate the Joker but I don’t want you to do that because of me. I don’t want that responsibility.”

Bruce is quiet for a long time then. He rocks Jason back and forth a little and it doesn’t help the nausea churning Jason’s stomach, but he doesn’t stop him. Eventually, Bruce speaks and his voice is soft and heavy with regret.

“I’m sorry Jason.” He nuzzles into Jason’s hair and Jason can’t stop the small little sob that hiccups out of him. “I never, ever wanted to make you feel like that. I was so angry at the Joker. I wanted so badly for him to be out of the picture. I didn’t stop to think about how you felt about it. About the fact that I was disregarding your choices.”

“I get it, B,” Jason starts, because he does. He gets being angry at the Joker. Hell, he gets wanting the man dead. Maybe in another life, Jason would be first in line to take the sick freak’s head off.

“I know you do,” Bruce murmurs, cutting him off, “but that doesn’t make it right. I disregarded your choices when you’ve already had so many taken away from you. I forced you to put yourself in danger because I was so caught up in my own anger that I couldn’t see what you were trying to tell me.”

Jason honestly doesn’t know what to say to that. This is not how he had pictured the conversation going. Yeah, Bruce has been...good these past few months, for the most part, but Jason doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to this soft, emotional side of Bruce. The chances of him getting used to Bruce actually admitting that he’s wrong - and apologising for it - are even less.

“I can’t say that I don’t wish the Joker was dead. I don’t think it will be any great loss if the Joker died in that helicopter crash. But I’m so, so sorry that I put the desire to see that above you. I don’t know if I can ever make up for hurting you.”

“Wow,” is all Jason can manage. “Did Dick tell you to say all that?”

Bruce laughs again, a huff of air that stirs the curls on the top of Jason’s head. “No, although I’m sure Dick has his own apologising to do.”

Jason shrugs again, letting himself lean more heavily against Bruce’s chest. “Dick has a gunshot wound, though, so I think I can let him off.”

Bruce hums in agreement before going quiet again. Jason fiddles with the sleeve of the arm still wrapped around him. Part of him wants to sit in the quiet with Bruce like this forever. The other part of him kind of wants to fill it with every painful, frantic thought that’s been running through his head all night as he struggled to find sleep.

“I’ve been thinking,” is what Jason settles on. Because he has. He’s had a lot of time to get those thoughts into some sort of semblance of order when they weren’t too busy overwhelming him. “About what you said...about therapy.”

He can feel Bruce tense under him. It’s obviously not what he was expecting Jason to say at all, but if Bruce of all people can manage emotional intelligence right now, Jason can manage this.

“I think I want to try it, if...if you really think it’ll help me.”

“I do, Jay,” Bruce says, quickly. He presses a soft kiss to the top of Jason’s head, tightening his arms again as if he’s worried Jason will slip right out of them. “I really, really do.”

“OK, then.” Jason lets his eyes slide shut, feeling suddenly muzzy with exhaustion. This conversation has settled something in him. With Bruce’s warm arms around him, with his strong chest at Jason’s back, Jason knows he won’t have any trouble falling asleep now. “I’ll try it. But only if you do too.”

Bruce laughs again and there’s warm amusement in his voice when he says: “If you think it’ll help me.” 

Jason might be annoyed, but he knows, despite the teasing, that Bruce will allow him this. Besides, Jason doesn’t have the energy. Bruce had agreed and that’s the important thing. Jason can sleep now, with his dad there to keep him safe from the nightmares he knows he won’t be able to avoid. And in the future, maybe Jason will be able to shut his eyes without having to worry about seeing the Joker behind his lids. Maybe, there’ll be a time when he barely has to think about him at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed! Please drop me a kudos or comment if you did ;)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr at [bearly-writing](https://bearly-writing.tumblr.com/) if you fancy dropping by for a chat!


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